stitching space a v iaduc t be tween the p r i son and the c i t y Robyn Arno t stitching space a v iaduc t be tween the p r i son and the c i t y Robyn Arnot | 0304792K This document is submitted in partial fulfi llment for the degree: Master of Architecture (Professional) at the University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, South Africa, in the year 2009. I, Robyn Arnot, student number 0304792K, am a student registered for the course Master of Architecture (Professional) in the year 2009. I hereby declare the following: I am aware that plagiarism (the use of someone else?s work without permission and/or without acknowledging the original sources) is wrong. I confi rm that the work submitted for assessment for the above course is my own unaided work except where I have stated explicitly otherwise. I have followed the required conventions in referencing thoughts, ideas, and visual materials of others. For this purpose, I have referred to the Graduate School of Engineering and the Built Environment style guide. I understand that the University of the Witwatersrand may take disciplinary action against me if there is a belief that this is not my own unaided work or that I have failed to acknowledge the source of the ideas or words in my own work. Robyn Arnot declaration contents Abstract 11 1|Essay 13 Prelude 15 Correction through retribution 21 The dungeon 23 The Cape of Good Hope 27 Correction through deterrence 35 The workhouse 37 The mine compound 43 Correction through reform 55 The panopticon 57 Johannesburg and the Old Fort Complex 65 Correction through rehabilitation 81 The new generation prison 83 The new South Africa 87 Conclusions 97 2|Site 99 The Diepkloof Prison 101 Site conditions 105 The Baralink framework 115 Medium B 121 3|Programme 129 The brief 131 The programme 133 4|Design 141 Concepts 143 The house 149 The street 157 5|Intervention 171 6|References 225 Appendix 1 227 Reference list 233 This project would not have been possible without the unfailing support and encouragement from a number of people to whom I am forever indebted. To Alistair for being the reason why this project took a rightful second place. To Mom for listening, supporting and reasoning. To Dad for the gift of education. To Christopher for inspiring, although probably unknowingly. To Duanne for your optimism and enthusiasm; Marc and Nico for your time and generosity. To Dene, Chris and Nadine for helping and encouraging. To the Level F studio group for motivating. To the GAPP team, and in particular the boys in the basement. To the civil servants, professionals and consultants for entrusting me with information. And last, but most certainly not least, to Kiki, Jono, Mohammed, Lone and Melinda for bequeathing your wisdom on my project. acknowledgements ?Please do not judge me by my outer appearance. It may be bad and scary but I won?t bite. I am a book with a damaged cover, but what is written between the lines could save a country from disaster...? (Rashied Wewers in Orford 2008:109. Prisoner at the Groot Drakenstein Correctional Facility) < South Africa?s prisons remain criminogenic repositories that exacerbate the state?s losing battle against crime. Pictured here: a sentenced and an awaiting-trial prisoner scale a dividing wall at Pollsmoor Maximum Security Prison (photograph by Mikhael Subotzky). The South African prison system has, throughout its history, been notoriously exploited as a means for suppressing political resistance and warehousing criminals as labour commodities. The prison represented a microcosm of a divided country, racked by racial segregation and discrimination. Since the ejection of the apartheid state and the societal shift towards democracy, prison conditions have all but improved: the system has become wrought by overcrowding and chaos ? largely attributed to the fi ercely regressive cycle of reoffending or ?recidivism? that has inhabited the power vacuum left by the eradication of the previous system. As South Africa?s prisons were constructed in an era that did not embrace the contemporary ideals of rehabilitation and restoration ? since adopted by the Department of Correctional Services in an attempt to remedy the failing system ? but rather in a period that maintained ?correction? through deterrence, they remain criminogenic repositories whose spaces cannot accommodate these progressive penal ideologies. The prison complex remains an anti-urban, asocial island, incessantly located and modelled on the archaic principles of the industrial city planners and social engineers, that without signifi cant reform, will continue to perpetuate the growing crisis of moral degeneration and the state?s losing battle against crime. This thesis intends to challenge and interrogate the seemingly inappropriate archetype of the prison by advocating a more pro-urban, more ideologically-relevant response to contemporary incarceration. The project will, both fi guratively and literally, and through the corrective lens of rehabilitation, attempt to shape the in- between space ? the no-man?s-land ? that exists between the prison and the city, the criminal and conformist: a viaduct between bipolar entities traditionally accepted as disjointed, disengaged. Whilst serving as a pragmatic conduit for successful correction, the intervention will too attempt to traverse and suture the moat of indifference and prejudice that hinders the successful resettlement of prisoners that have duefully served their time. abstract Traditionally, the prison and city have been considered disparate and bipolar entities. 11 ?Imprisonment as such does not rehabilitate people, nor does it facilitate the ultimate goal of reintegration.? (Lukas Muntingh 2001:6. The Case for Reintegration) e s s a y 1 < Throughout history, the prison as a ?corrective? device, has inhabited the city (photograph by Mikhael Subotzky). This essay provides an historical account of the developments of the penal system and its architecture, both in Europe where it was born, and in South Africa to where it was disseminated and ultimately exploited. The intention of this perspective is to offer a detailed account of both the socio-political and architectural contexts within which the deteriorating South African prison is positioned and with which, the Department of Correctional Services is currently confronted. Since the origins of medieval civilisation, the notion of the prison as both a social and spatial phenomenon has progressively inhabited the city. Throughout its history, penal theory and its allied methods of imprisonment have been continuously aimed through the lens of ?correction? ? of remedying anti-social behaviour ? through varying degrees of severity and science. Whilst always underscored by the common denominator of correction, the philosophical evolution of incarceration can be traced through three major phases: correction through retribution, deterrence, and reformation, which were all consequent and contemporaneous to the shifting social dynamics of the time, although most signifi cantly, to the fundamental shift from the feudalist farm to the capitalist city, where antisocial behaviour occupied the transitional void of politics, society and power, and resulted in an overhaul of inveterate penal policy. Attached to these modes of incarceration has always existed, in some form or other, a spatial solution, that enabled the exploitation of these ideals ? from the gloomy castle dungeon, to the nondescript but punitive ?workhouse?, to the modern and absolute panoptic prison. Although fi rst introduced in the Middle Ages, imprisonment as the ?primary means of punishment? was not in fact tested until much later on in the 18th century, when the modernist city and its modern subject became rationalised by new archetypes and when institutionalisation became the supposed cure for anti-social behaviour. As a result and until this time, the prison (and institution in general) was largely nondescript and with no specifi cally-calculated archetype. The advent of the Industrial Revolution, the renaissance of the enlightened mind and the birth of ?social engineering? did however, initiate an architectural stratagem for the institution that was founded on the principles of its precursors, but which focused its ideals on modes of reform, rather than retribution and deterrence. The modern institution became a rationalisation of control, order, effi ciency, systemisation and classifi cation, upon which, the modern ?total institution? ? the boarding school, concentration camp, asylum and prison ? was established. Through the agency of built form, architecture (and space) began to be exploited in establishing a sense of ?Utopia? ? social happiness, harmony and order ? by reconstructing the ?behaviour patterns of [the] new morality? (Vidler 1984: 290). Throughout the development of the settlement, the prison has been exploited in capturing and discarding misdemeanants from society, but also for criminalising them according to a set of state-determined felonies. In extreme cases, the prison was further manipulated as an agent through which fascist-tainted policy was executed ? in Germany for the National Socialist (Nazi) reign, in Chile for Pinochet?s junta dictatorship, in South Africa for the National Party?s apartheid administration, but also across the world with respects to religious persecution ? where newly defi ned prisoners of race and creed were prelude essay|15 < Since the dual revolution a century and a half ago, the global attitude towards prison architecture has remained largely unchallenged. incarcerated for their ?crimes?. The shifting defi nition of ?criminal? over the centuries of the prison?s existence, has thus played a signifi cant role in the development of both the penal system and its architecture ? from the medieval letter thief and orchard robber, sodomite, blasphemer, heretic, deserter, and in the colonies, the insubordinate slave; to the Renaissance debtor, prostitute, petty thief, vagabond, political enemy and rebel; to the contemporary murderer, rapist, armed robber, fraudster, traffi cker and extortionist. In South Africa, and as a result of the dissemination of colonial ideals and practices, the historical advance of the prison system is analogous to that of Europe, both socially and spatially. From the moment when the feral Cape was fi rst occupied by the Dutch in the middle of the 17th century, South Africa?s prisons became a progeny of the colonists and a similarly direct consequence of the socio-political circumstances of the state ? not dissimilar to those experienced by developing Europe, albeit a century later. Global forces on local practices meant the mimicking of the medieval dungeon at the Castle of Good Hope, the workhouse in the Transvaal mine compound, and the panopticon in industrial Johannesburg ? in its prisons but also through its policies of apartheid town planning and social engineering. But, since the dual revolution in Europe a century and a half ago, the global attitude towards prison architecture has remained largely indifferent. Although attempts have been made at testing new models, such as the ?new generation? prototype, the contemporary prison has become stagnant, particularly in developing nations, and remains spatially inconducive to the reformed ideologies of the penal system. ?The prison, along with other archetypal structures and concepts within the city ? the civilised settlement ? such as the road, the city gate, the palace, which have all evolved, has remained largely unchanged? (Sudjic 1993:xx). The philosophical discipline of penal reform has however, made signifi cant advance from its focus on medieval banishment and retribution, and later deterrence through inhumane conditions. In the latter half of the 20th century, when migration to the cities and globalisation across nations began to saturate societies with a wide spectrum of cultures and religions, and a subsequent degeneration of moral fi bre, the existing penal system was once again challenged by a new approach: ?correction? through rehabilitation. In post-apartheid South Africa, where a signifi cant increase in crime has occupied the power vacuum left by the previously authoritarian apartheid state (now replaced by a contrastingly indulgent democratic one) the ideals of rehabilitation and restoration have too been embraced (King cited in Oppler 1998:7). In an attempt to reduce the fi ercely regressive cycle of recidivism that has rendered the existing South African ?Correctional? system unsustainable and futile, the rehabilitation theory promotes a system of correction that improves successful re- integration of post-prisoners back into society. More recently, the technique of ?restorative justice? has been adopted and aims to initiate a system whereby all affected parties are actively involved in the criminal justice process ? where ?government is responsible for preserving order [but] the community? for establishing peace? (Maepa 2005:1). Through the introduction of public and victim participation, the restitution theory intends to restore moral consciousness and personal essay|17 < The existing prison warehouse - a repository of recidivism - negates the progress of successful rehabilitation and reintegration (photograph by Mikhael Subotzky). responsibility by ?holding the offender accountable for [his/her] actions? (Batley 2005:29). While seemingly radical, the key tenets of the restitution process are in fact analogous to those practiced historically throughout indigenous communities, and in particular African ones, since the dawn of civilisation. While penal theory has once again adapted to counteract the growing moral crisis of the new millennium, its architecture has not suffi ciently, nor with equal enthusiasm, succeeded. Archaic typologies, once calculated through an opposing lens of correction, are now spatially inappropriate and hinder the advance of contemporary rehabilitation. Moreover, the prison (and similar ?total institutions?) remains strewn beyond, although increasingly engulfed by, the city and remains sited as an inaccessible, anti-urban and asocial island, that impedes the realisation of contemporary penology. essay|19 retribution n. punishment or vengeance for evil deeds < Throughout the Middle Ages, retribution was won through public scorn and physical torture - most of which was meted out at the notorious Tower of London. correction through retribution The dungeon Prior to, and up until, the social reform that resurrected English medieval society from a feudalist to a capitalist one, the approach to anti-social behaviour was centred on methods of ?correction? through retribution. Justice was won through public scorn and the torturous infl iction of bodily pain, or even death, but also by brutal methods of containment. Punishment was also dealt through banishment or deportation from the town, which intended to ?remove the criminal from a society which did not have much interest in his welfare? (Van Zyl Smit 1992:18). Although medieval society witnessed the dawn of the prison phenomenon, it did so only partially. The prison in this instance was not, as is the case with subsequent penal theory, employed as the principal executor of punishment but, was rather devised as a container in which an offender could be restrained until his/her punishment was executed. Castle dungeons and later, but similarly gloomy, ?blind? cells of the 16th and 17th century prisons, exploited means of ruthless isolation by ?placing the prisoner not in the region of the dammed, as did the overcrowded gaols [that followed], but in the region of the dead? (Evans 1982:78). ?It [was] common practice? to consign malefactors, political enemies and heretics to chambers cut into the depth of tower walls, in the footings of baileys, to undercrofts and cellars? (Evans 1982:76), until such time that they were tried and chastised. Spaces of this nature were characterised by heavy stone walls, initially subterranean, damp and mouldy, with low vaulted ceilings pierced by a single ray of light ?aligned to give the prisoner a tantalising glimpse of a tiny piece of the sky? (Evans 1982:85). Prisoners were often chained to the walls or ?stapled to the fl oor? (Evans 1982: 89), and in later years, when overcrowding defeated isolation, were often shackled to one another, from ankle to ankle, allowing only inches of space in which to manoeuvre. In an extremist adaptation of the medieval dungeon, the ?bottle dungeon? or oubliette (French for ?forgotten place?) was adopted in many fortresses ? most of them private ? and was characterised by a deep, subterranean pit accessible only from a hatch in its high ceiling. Even more radical oubliettes were conical in shape and circumscribed by a fl at, habitable ledge, allowing for the downward collection of excrement and deceased prisoners. As the societal shift from feudalism to capitalism, and thus the move from countryside to town, transformed the Middle Ages, the castle dungeon was replaced by more urban archetypes. The siting of such prisons occupied either a centrally located position within the city, in close proximity to the town square for the spectacle of public punishment, or were located on the urban periphery within the dungeonous walls of the city gates, in an attempt to curb the ?spread of disease? and caution passing citizens of the consequences of such behaviour. Oftentimes, prison buildings were ?decorated with open cages, stocks and pillory, for the display and mortifi cation of offenders? (Patel 1999:14), the method of which was devised to ?correct? the offender through remorse and ridicule. City prisons also became characterised by degrees of permeability ? An illustration of a medieval dungeon - typifi ed by heavy stone walls and punctured by a slit of light (Evans 1983:32). An illustration of ?The Pit? at Warwick Gaol in the 1700s, where a chain was threaded through ankle irons and then anchored to the passage wall (Evans 1983:90). essay|23 < The retributivists ensured that their captives delighted in none other but a gash of light and a gush fresh air. Pictured here: the Castle of Good Hope dungeon. > Plans and sections of a typical bottle dungeon accessed only via a hatch in its ceiling - a typology of extreme isolation. Pictured here: Portman Castle in 1791 (Evans 1983:77). An illustration of the radical oubliette - this one in the French prison, La Bastille (Voillet-Le-Duc 1856:oubliette). essay|25 < The ideals of retribution were disseminated to South Africa in the 17th century and immediately employed at the Castle of Good Hope - the site of South Africa?s fi rst prison. with begging grates and commercial hatches for barbershops and brothels (Patel 1999:14), retrospectively illustrating the state?s commitment to fostering relationships and thereby upholding the misdemeanant?s position as a member of society, albeit detained. The grate also marked the highly sensitive threshold between prison and street, inside and outside. As the primary concern of medieval prison building was with the provision of spaces for detainment, prison architecture remained largely nondescript and did not obviously exhibit itself as such. Security was mostly achieved through the use of retrofi t ironmongery ? bars, gratings, chains, shackles and irons ? rather than through the exploitation of architecture, meaning that ?the need to prevent escape, did not greatly affect [the prisons] internal distribution or disturb the elevations of its buildings? (Evans 1982: 13). The Cape of Good Hope In South Africa, the importation of the European, medieval ideals of retribution1 are most clearly evident in the Cape, upon which the Dutch landed in 1652. During the 17th and 18th centuries, punishment for misdemeanants2 was similarly ?directed at the body ? public executions by fi ring squads and even public crucifi xion? (Oppler 1998:3). Mass deportations to the infamous Robben Island and other Dutch colonies in the East also eased society of its social misfi ts. The Castle of Good Hope, which is regarded as a considerable structure and symbol of oppression throughout South Africa?s early history ? a ?bastion of European civilisation at Africa?s farthest end? (Johnson Barker 2003:120) ? was built between 1666 and 1679 by the Dutch East India Company or Vereenigde Ost-Indische Compagnie (VOC) on the original coastline of Table Bay. The pentagonal Castle ? the fi rst and oldest building to be erected on South Africa?s soil ? was built as a maritime replenishment station but more importantly as a defence against attack by land or sea. The Castle was also the site of the country?s fi rst prison. At fi rst, and until subsequent additions to the Castle in the middle of the 18th century, the fortress?s prison was comprised of two adjacent and inter-leading rooms ? a dungeon and torture chamber ? that were situated on the southern end of the ?curtain wall? that adjoined the Catzenellenbogen and the Nassau bastions. The rooms were nondescript and revealed themselves as such only by the slit of light that pierced through the top of the dungeon?s heavy, outer wall and by the iron eyehooks that were suspended from the vaulted ceiling and entrenched into the stone walls of the torture chamber. The retrofi tted hooks were used as props for torture: the ceiling hook, almost 4 meters in the air, for hoisting up the suspect and then plunging him down ? head-fi rst ? into the rock-hard concrete fl oor; the wall hooks were used for restraining the suspect 1 While ?correction? through retribution was fi rst introduced to South Africa in the middle of the 17th century and formally abolished by the British in 1797, corporal punishment in prisons was not completely abolished until the early 1990s and ?even as late as March and April 1994? (Oppler 1998:3). In Europe, the Catholic Church forbade the use of corporal punishment in 1816 (Johnson Barker 2003:142). 2 In early colonial South Africa, the realisation of the slave trade accounted for the majority of the penal system?s casualties. An illustration of a street-fronting ?poor debtor?s cell? and begging grate - prevalent in medieval town gaols (Evans 1983:27). An illustrated catalogue of retrofi t prison ironmongery - ?cell doors, bolts, locks, hinges and inspection slides? (Evans 1983:359). essay|27 < Outwardly, the nondescript detention cells of the Catzenellenbogen bastion were denotable by retrofi tted iron deadbolts - while inwardly, by profound inscriptions. with chains and shackles, for the purposes of fl ogging, branding and stretching. Because Old Dutch Law, which, until this day, still constitutes a signifi cant part of the South African legal system, required that a criminal confess to his crimes before sentence could be passed, for reluctant witnesses and suspects, the infl iction of physical torture most often ensued a short stay in the adjoining ?dark hole?. In this instance, the retributive approach was exploited to extract information, obtain a confession and thus permit sentencing, and also as a means of executing the sentence. Lighter sentences condemned the criminal to banishment on Robben Island, and often compelled him to also pay the costs of his trial and a fi ne ? ?one third of [which] was to be paid to the Dutch East India Company, one third to the poor and one third to the Fiscal? (Cortem?nde cited in Johnson Barker 2003:142). Misfortunate criminals who were sentenced to death were lead to the public gallows immediately west of the castle fortifi cation, beyond the Leerdam bastion ? an area referred to as the buitenkant (Dutch for ?outside?). The Catzenellenbogen bastion was the site of the fort?s additional prison. A number of garrison cells which were designed by Louis Thibault in 1786 and shortly afterwards subdivided by the British, were used for detaining misdemeanants either awaiting prosecution or retribution, until as late as the Second World War. Five gloomy cells, one of which was further partitioned to accommodate two small detention chambers, were arranged around an enclosed courtyard that was accessed by a single door. With the exception of its internal segregation, the room assigned to the gaol was not dissimilar in size, layout or construction, to the multitude of other rooms that comprised the castle buildings, and from the circulation passage, was distinguishable as such, only by the retrofi tted fanlight grating and heavy iron dead bolt affi xed to the outer leaf of the door. Each cell, intended to detain only a single captive, was fi tted with a rudimentary water trough and lit by an elevated slit. Similarly to the main access door, each cell door was externally fi tted with an iron dead bolt and strap-hinges, and the fanlight with iron bars. Long prior to the Dutch colonisation of the Cape, Robben Island had been geographically exploited as a place of banishment and institutionalisation of social castaways. The island, which was fi rst discovered by Portuguese explorers in 1488, although frequented by the resident Khoi for decades prior, was regularly used as a disposal site for captured natives and unruly slaves aboard the trade ships destined for the Far East. As colonisation intensifi ed and the land-economy grew into a bustling town, the island became renowned as a convict station where handfuls of petty thieves, disobedient slaves, heretics, indigenous warriors, and even those from distant colonies, were banished to. ?For the most part, the Island protected [the] colonists from [their] guilty consciences? (Smith 1997:40). As labour was scarce and prisoners abundant, many judgments declared that as part of the criminal?s retribution, the exiled residents of Robben Island be put to work, gathering shells for lime, and quarrying stone and slate for buildings in the new settlement. In fact, much of the Castle of Good Hope was constructed from rock hewn by the island?s prisoners. In 1844, the island?s notorious reputation as ?dumping ground for the unwanted, the desperately ill, the blind, the An illustration of the Castle?s public gallows - the retributivist?s ultimate reprisal (Lady Anne Barnard in Johnson Barker 1993:99). An illustration of the cruelties of retribution - not dissimilar to those executed in the equally nondescript torture chamber at the Castle of Good Hope (Evans 1983:191). essay|29 < Within the Catzenellenbogen bastion, fi ve gloomy cells were arranged around an enclosed courtyard and accessible only by a single door - here with a contemporary glazed skylight. > A plan (bottom) and section (top) illustrating the layout of the fi ve detention cells in the Catzenellenbogen bastion. essay|31 < Throughout South Africa?s history, Robben Island has been exploited as an extremist site of retribution, exile and quarantine. impoverished, the insane and the criminal? (Smith 1997:15) came to fruition. Prisoners, who were declared more useful on the mainland, were replaced by a colony of lepers who had been removed from Hemel-en-Aarde (Dutch for ?heaven on earth?) near Caledon and also from a facility in Port Elizabeth. Furthermore, scores of patients from the Somerset West Hospital, and among them, mentally ill and cancer patients, epileptics and diabetics, were exiled to the island. A group of paupers and invalids were also transferred there from the SA College in Cape Town (Smith 1997:41). In an attempt to ?calm the lunatics? (as the group was commonly called), they were too set to work in the Robben Island quarries. At night, they slept in the cells of the military stables or in small tin shanties that they had erected. At the turn of the 20th century and after numerous inquisitions into the abominable conditions on the island, the lepers were evacuated back to the mainland. The mentally ill were fi nally relocated in 1913 leaving behind only the island?s lighthouse keeper and his family. Over the next half century, the island was converted into a naval fortress to be used as a defensive during the Second World War. Murray?s Bay harbour and an airfi eld were constructed and gun emplacements built. In 1960, the island was handed over to the Department of Prisons and in 1964 the Robben Island maximum security prison was completed. Until the early 1990?s, the island remained a site of horrifi c torture and victimisation, a stage for severely enforced labour, and a place notoriously exploited for the banishment and isolation of political resistance towards the apartheid regime. essay|33 deterrence n. the inhibition of criminal behaviour by fear especially of punishment < While engineered to deter idleness, the workhouse phenomenon was both socially and spatially central to the formation of the modern institution. Pictured here: the Holborn workhouse (Higginbotham 2000:19/06/08). correction through deterrence The workhouse While the dissolution of the medieval monasteries and the collapse of feudal social structures in the early 14th century in Europe sparked a social, and thus a penal, reform, the existing retributive approach towards penal theory was met by an alternative methodology: ?correction? through deterrence. This era in penal theory marked a fundamental shift away from a ?suffering of event? (as previously executed by the retributivists) towards a ?suffering of condition? (Evans 1982:21) where for the fi rst time, ?incarceration for a fi xed period proportionate to the heinousness of the offence? (Van Zyl Smit 1992:8) was introduced, thus marking the offi cial inauguration of the imprisonment phenomenon. As the once small feudal villages grew rapidly into bustling towns, they too attracted ?dispossessed peasants and serfs no longer connected to feudal lords? (Philbrick 1991:11). Communities became inundated with poverty and vice, and also by an alarming spread of idleness and defi ance towards the new and reforming social constitution. To counteract the growing indigence and immorality that began to plague communities ? what was described by London?s aldermen as ?the puddle of idleness ? the mother and leader of beggary and all mischief? (Copeland 1888:49) ? and thus relieve the penal system, a series of Poor Laws were established. In order to bolster the system, vagabondage, an unwillingness to seek employment, and resignation from such, were ruled as capital felonies alongside common offenses such as theft and indebtedness. The Poor Law system was separated into the Old and New Poor Laws1 and distinguished from one another by their shift from a parochial and voluntary association, concerned with the relief of destitution, to a centrally enforced, brutally instituted and compulsory system that aimed to deter idleness. The development of the New Poor Laws became manifest in and centred around the ?workhouse? ? the infamous institution where the ?thriftless? were redeemed through the transforming power of work2 (Evans 1982:50). In 1723, and to curb mounting abuse of the system, The Workhouse Test Act was passed and commanded that the system be restructured as a ?deliberate deterrent? for anti-social behaviour. Workhouses or ?houses of correction? became renowned for bad conditions and rigorous implementation of policies ? comparable to those implemented in contemporary prisons ? the most notable of which included: punishment for misdemeanours or disobedience, either through solitary 1 The Old Poor Laws, which were crystallised in the Elizabethan Poor Law Act of 1601, but which were preceded by many formal provisions, were fundamentally concerned with distinguishing the ?impotent? poor from those ?able-bodied?, and thus establishing a public works system of state-run ?poor houses? through which ?indoor? relief ? the provision of labour in return for remuneration and lodging ? was disseminated. But, the system became wrought by exploitation and began to perpetuate the mounting crisis of defi ance and indolence. In order to remedy what was claimed as ?poverty due to fecklessness, immorality, idleness and drunkenness? (Bloy 2002:17/06/08), the New Poor Laws and workhouse system were enforced. 2 As the workhouse was conceived as a solution for social misfi ts of a much wider spectrum than just those associated with criminality, it was both socially and spatially central to the formation of the modern institution. The workhouse, in its attempt to become an ?instrument of social welfare?, in fact became a ?national experiment in institutional care? wherein the remedy of all social ills was attempted (Crowther 1981:2). An 18th century plaque declaring the general social policies experimented with through the workhouse (Higginbotham 2000:19/06/08). essay|37 < scenes from Oliver! - the 1968 musical adaptation of Charles Dickens? 1938 classic novel, Oliver Twist. Oliver Twist, who was orphaned at birth by his mother?s death, lived a life of poverty and adversity under the Poor Law system in an English workhouse. After asking for more food during an evening dinner routine, Oliver was sold to a local undertaker, from whom he escaped to London. There, Oliver joined a group of child pickpockets and their elderly mentor, Fagin, and was launched into a corrupt existence which robbed him of his naivety but ultimately found him an honest home with a generous family. (top centre) While at the workhouse, Oliver and his fellow inmates were compelled to perform the menial task of grinding grain on a treadwheel. confi nement or the withdrawal of privileges, although, in a resurgence of medieval practices, was also met by fl ogging, chaining, near starvation, and even the ?water cellar?3 ; the provision of objectionable and rudimentary food rations; a strict implementation of bell-times, routines and inspections; the retraction of all personal belongings and clothing in return for compulsory uniforms; and the granting of privileges upon good behaviour, which would include additional food rations, tobacco and occasionally authorised leave from the institution (Higginbotham 2000:19/06/08). Whilst in the workhouse, inmates were compelled to complete laborious and menial tasks such as stone-breaking for road construction, bone- crushing to be used for fertilisation and oakum-picking for rope fi bre, the yields of which, were often not intended for profi t or use, but rather prescribed because of their irksome nature (Crowther 1981:198). The workhouse also became renowned for the promotion of forced labour on inventions such as the ?treadwheel?4 ? a practice intended to ?correct? offenders by ?teaching them [the] habits of industry? (Hubbard 1887: 1). Although both in theory and practice, the workhouse phenomenon was an exemplar to the modern institution, it was not so architecturally. ?The early house of correction made a place into a punishment but the place itself had no special properties? (Evans 1982:56). Workhouses most often occupied houses, workshops, empty convents, monasteries and abandoned palaces, many of which had become subject to the fall of the monastic hierarchy, and like early prisons, were mere ?colonisations of existing sites and structures... never conceived as works of architecture in any conventional sense (Evans 1982:56). After the Poor Law Amendment Act of 1834 however, through which Poor Law Unions became directly responsible for workhouse management, a series of principles and architectural guidelines were established. Model workhouses were drawn-up and bore large resemblance to their contemporaneous ?reform? experiments. The ?square plan? and the ?hexagonal plan? ensued the ?courtyard? model, where observation was rationalised from a central vantage point, and control administered by a circumferential perimeter wall in which the detention chambers were oftentimes located. As the phenomenon of the workhouse was engineered contemporaneously to the new industrial city, it became the ideal agent for the advance of capitalism. Through its revolutionary policies, it distinguished between the ?valuable? and the ?worthless?, and thus devised a method by which all members of society could become constructive gears in the capitalist machine. The rise of industrialisation in the latter half of the eighteenth century, and contemporaneously, the enormous infl ux of people to and consequent unemployment in the cities, contributed ominously to the severe strain upon the system and ultimately upon the workhouse. After decades of dissatisfaction and public unrest towards the system, the workhouse 3 The water cellar was an underground closet that fi lled rapidly with gushing water and that required the misdemeanant to save himself from drowning by frantically driving a hand pump. 4 The treadwheel was a type of mill that resembled a water wheel and that required labour to tread paddles set into its circumference in order to initiate a grain-grinding mechanism. The treadwheel, also referred to as a ?treadmill?, was designed by William Cubitt in the 18th century, and, due its productivity but more so its laborious and penal nature, was exploited in English workhouse institutions. An illustration of the infamous treadwheel where prisoners were permitted a short rest every 20 minutes. Pictured here: the Brixton workhouse in 1821 (Evans 1983:300). An illustration of a stone-breaking yard. Picture here: the Bethnal Green workhouse in 1868 (Higginbotham 2000:19/06/08). essay|39 < Kempthorne?s ?square? plan for the model workhouse - the layout quartered by the cruciform plan and control administered centrifugally (Higginbotham 2000:19/06/08). > Kempthorne?s ?square? plan (top) and ?hexagonal? plan (bottom) (Higginbotham 2000:19/06/08). The ?square? and ?hexagonal? model workhouses were analogous to their contemporaneous ?reform? precedents - the centrifugal panoptic and radial models. essay|41 < By similarly enforcing prisoners to complete menial tasks such as stone-breaking, Robben Island began to bear large resemblance to the European workhouse. prodigy was fi nally abolished in 1930, although in the early twentieth century in England, many of the workhouse complexes continued to function as hospitals and homes for the aged and mentally ill5. The mine compound The deterrent ideals of the colonisers began to materialise in South Africa at the turn of the 18th century when forced labour ? both in prison and out ? escalated to become one of the notorious traits of the apartheid regime, and one of the key rationales in the confi guration of its prisons. In Johannesburg, the exploitation of cheap labour became particularly apparent in the infamous mine compound ? an epitome of the European workhouse both through the implementation of its policies and layout of its buildings, and an instigator of the current South African prison. While Robben Island had been historically exploited as a refuge for castaways and a site of extremist retribution, it advanced to one where the ideals of the deterrent philosophy were executed. Not excluding its long-standing history of forced labour, the introduction of the maximum security prison and its political detainees from the 1960s onwards, declared it an exemplar as such. Prisoners were compelled not only to spend a large part of their lives hewing rock in the limestone quarries of the island ? the conquering of which ironically lead South Africa into democracy ? but were also forced to complete similarly menial tasks such as stone-breaking for the construction of island roads. On the mainland, the British occupation of the Cape in 1795, initiated the shift towards ?correction? through deterrence. Incarceration as a means of sentencing was introduced and in order to make good use of the idle prisoners, they were set to work. During the 1840s and 1850s, convicts were put to work on public projects building roads and ships. Prisoners of the famed Breakwater Prison in Cape Town were responsible for constructing the waterfront breakwater. ?In 1871, similar demands for labour were felt in the rapidly expanding diamond mining industry? (Oppler 1998:3) and as such, the plight of prison labour began. The fl edgling penal policies were adapted to allow private organisations, but mostly those in the business of mining6, that were in need of cheap labour to establish prison outposts, placed in close proximity to the sources of production, where from convicts could be set to work7. In effect, and through the penal system, the state became ?the provider of unskilled black labour for the mines? (Van Zyl Smit 1992:15). 5 Concurrently in Germany, and long prior to Nazism, institutions of this nature were still developed to ?protect? society from those ?dangerous to the community? (Voigt 1982:131). ?Reformatory homes? were established to combine the functions of public residential housing and work camps for ?irrecuperable asocials? who, either due to failing their rent payments, poor housekeeping, quarrelling with neighbours, or bad and disruptive behaviour, were controlled and ?rehabilitated? (Voigt 1982: 133). The siedlungs, and in particular those at Bremen, were analogous to the eighteenth century British workhouse and were, too, renowned for their severe implementation of policies and forced labour. 6 Initially prison labour was mostly employed on the mines, although increasingly on private farms. During the 1930s, when depression struck, prison labour was made available to farmers at exceptionally low rates. 7 In 1885, the De Beers Diamond Mining Company became the fi rst private organisation to employ convicts for labour (Oppler 1998:3). By the end of the 19th century, De Beers was using in excess of 100 000 prison labourers daily (Goyer 2001:4). From the middle of the 19th century in South Africa, prisoners began to be exploited as labour commodities. Pictured here: prisoners after a days work building roads (Kallaway 1986:87). essay|43 < After its dissemination to South Africa, the kampong became ruthlessly exploited for means of effi ciency and control. Pictured here: the Langlaagte Deep compound (Chipkin 1993:194). The mine compound ? the architectural realisation of the prison outpost ? was fi rst introduced to South Africa in Kimberley, where the discovery of diamonds in the 1870s, required a substantial but low-cost labour force. The ?closed compound?, which was an import of the Malaysian kampong system8 but indistinguishable to the European workhouse, was introduced as a pragmatic means of accommodating the workers, but also as a cunning device that ensured tight control, ?prevent[ed] the theft of diamonds? (Kallaway 1986:12), and reduced the cost of labour on the mines. Shortly afterwards, in 1886, the discovery of the world?s richest gold deposits on the Witwatersrand ? the ?ecological climax of Kimberley? (Chipkin 1993:5) ? changed the fortunes of South Africa forever and in particular that of its prisons. The need for cheap labour reached an unparalleled high. In order to drastically increase the labour force required on the mines, and together with additionally shrewd recruitment methods, the South African government instituted a series of laws and taxes that compelled black subsistence farmers to seek work in the cities. The ?hut tax?, the ?poll tax?, the ?labour tax? and the ?Land Act? (or ?Glen Grey Act?) of 1894, were enforced and coerced rural peasants into employment on the mines. In a similar vein to the advocates of the English workhouse, Cecil John Rhodes, Prime Minister of the Cape and mine owner, stated that the taxes ?removed Natives from that life of sloth and laziness, taught them the dignity of labour and made them contribute to the prosperity of the state? (Van der Horst in Callinicos 1981:28). As a result of the newfound policy, the mines (and Johannesburg) became inundated with a population of unskilled and temporary9 migrant labour that was supplemented by the prisons and housed in compounds. The ?Chinese Labour Experiment? in the early 1900s also increased the labour force, as did labour recruitment efforts in Rhodesia, Namibia, Mozambique and elsewhere along Africa?s east coast. In order to retain control of Johannesburg?s new labouring population, as well as ensure that the mines remained driven by a substantial but cheap workforce by preventing ?desertion?10, a series of pass laws11 were introduced. As many workers spent time in prison from the contravention of the laws, ?the population of both compounds and prisons consisted not only of criminals in the ordinary sense, but of a new labouring population criminalised by laws and controlled in new institutions? 8 The Malaysian ?kampong? was used in Asia to control potential labour riots (Brodie 2008:62). 9 For the purposes of extended control over the ?size of the permanent urbanised black population?, as well as to relieve the state of social responsibilities such as housing, health and welfare, workers were employed on a contract basis (usually between two and six months in length, although later up to twelve months), after which they were returned home to their rural communities (Kallaway 1986:11). 10 Breach of contract or ?desertion? on the labourer?s part was ruled a capital felony and resulted in his imprisonment, thus cyclically feeding the prison labour system, and rendering the compound prison-like. 11 The infamous pass laws were realised through a number of required passes, namely the ?district pass?, ?night pass?, ?traveling pass?, ?six-day pass? and the ?special pass?, the latter of which allowed a mine worker to exit his compound, if only for a few hours. The incestuous cycle of labour between prison and compound ensured cheap labour for both the mines and elsewhere. Pictured here: workers in breach being sentenced (Callinicos 1981:37). An illustration of the shrewd coercion of rural peasants into employment on the highveld (Kallaway 1986:6). essay|45 < Mine compounds, like many of South Africa?s prisons today, were characterised by overcrowded communal cells, derogatory ablutions, and an absolute lack of facilities (Author Unspecifi ed in WLRC 2001:x). (Giffard cited in Oppler 1998:3). Along with the history of segregation fi rst implemented by the colonisers in the Cape12, the segregation of white and black labour, both in the prisons and compounds of Johannesburg, saw the dawn of apartheid and the ominous shaping of the city. Based on the early workhouse ?courtyard? model, the compound was typically quadrangle, the circumference of which, served the purposes of both perimeter wall and workers accommodation, designed for approximately 3000 men. Early compound buildings were ?nothing more than camps? (Callinicos 1981:43) ? of wood and iron construction with earth fl oors and often with no lights or windows for adequate ventilation. The complexes were surrounded by a high iron fence surmounted with barbed wire to prevent escape and were accessed only via a single steel-encased entrance gate ? all of which could be easily surrounded by a police or security force in the event of unrest (Brodie 2008: 62). At the centre of each complex were a guard station and arsenal, and a public, open-air ablution facility that ensured centralised and effi cient security and the minimum provision of facilities, but deprived labourers of privacy. ?Toilets were nothing but a long bench with holes [in it], where 20 men could relieve themselves at the same time? (Callinicos 1981:44). Compound sleeping quarters consisted of rows of barrack-like steel or concrete bunks, often two or three tiers high reached by ladders, organised around a central space that allowed the workers no privacy, but the compound policemen full vantage. Similarly large, communal cells fi tted with rows of iron bunk beds were too employed in the allied prison buildings, and are one of the fascist remnants that plague the current South African prison. In the bitterly cold highveld winters, the sleeping quarters were supplied with imbandlas ? large tin containers of burning coal that discharged fi lthy and dangerous fumes throughout the lodgings. As there was no appropriate storage provided, the bleak and perversely basic accommodation was often animated by hanging laundry, bicycles, shoes and other belongings. The similarities of compound life to that in the European workhouse were clearly evident, although not instructed for the same reasons. The appalling and inhumane compound conditions were intended to reduce the costs of labour to the mines by similarly providing accommodation for forced labour. But, on a more political front, and together with the strict implementation of policies, was also devised to retain submission of the workers and thus their obedience with respects to labour. The wage colour bar, implemented by the Chamber of Mines, ensured that workers be paid an absolute minimum wage ? usually no more than two shillings and three pence for a ten hour shift (Callinicos 1981:54). Each worker was issued with a numbered bracelet by which he could be identifi ed and was forced to return to the compound after his daily work to sleep and eat. Upon special request and good behaviour, a labourer may be permitted to exit the compound for a limited period of time. Compound sleeping quarters were overcrowded, dirty and unsanitary and as a result, the health of 12 In the Cape and Natal colonies, the colonialists implemented a system of pass laws that regulated and restricted the movement of ?blacks? in and between districts. The system also prohibited blacks from using the streets after dark and in order to prevent imprisonment, compelled them to carry a pass at all times. Like that of the model workhouse, the compound ?courtyard? typology was analogous to both the centrifugal panoptic and radial models. Public ablution facilities - central to most compound complexes - robbed labourers of their privacy and plagued them with subservience (Kallaway 1986:15). essay|47 < A plan (bottom) and perspective (top) of the quadrangular compound typology, where the circumference was occupied by sleeping quarters and the centre by the guard and arsenal. << The quadrangle Simmer and Jack mine compound (Kallaway 1986:12). >> The recently restored municipal Electricity compound (now Workers Library) in Newtown (Lipman & Paine 2008). > A plan (bottom) of the municipal compound typology - a semi-quadrangle derivation of the mine compound - which was made more climatically appropriate by the addition of a colonnaded walkway along its inner circumference. A section (top) illustrates the addition of the covered walkway as well as that of a raised roof light which assisted in ventilating and lighting the sleeping quarters below. essay|49 < Food in the compounds, as in the workhouse, was unpalatable and minimal, and was employed as a mechanism for control. Pictured here: the Johannesburg municipality cook house in 1906 (Kallaway 1986:21). workers was dreadful. Pandemics such as pneumonia and meningitis were rife and often unattended to, and coupled with other illnesses such as intestinal infections, scurvy, syphilis, bacillosis, tuberculosis and work-related injuries, scores of labourers died each year13. The compounds were too engrossed in violence, assault, bribery, drug and alcohol abuse and gangsterism. Food in the compound was abominable and kept to a bare minimum through the weekly provision of just 5lbs of mealie meal per labourer. Meat was only ever provided upon special occasions, and even then, was questionable . Food was also used as a means of control: only those who had completed their daily work would be given their rations. In order to deviously uplift the dwindling worker moral, beer rations were introduced ? often as a ?Sunday treat? or as a reward for a hard day?s work. The historical association of beer and the apartheid state is a tainted one and was, as in the case of the compound, used predominantly as an agent of repression, where the government retained control of the population by using alcohol to ?dampen [black] people?s political awareness? (La Hausse 1988:8). The introduction of alcohol to the compounds was also intended as a means of maintaining the labour force as they became more and more indebted to their dop and, thus in turn, to their paying jobs14. From the turn of the 20th century, the mine compound typology also began to be utilised by the municipality who too made use of cheap, migrant labour for the establishment of the new city. Municipal compounds were expediently positioned on the outer rings of the city, oftentimes alongside the departmental depots that they were intended to service, in an attempt to quarantine the complexes (and their labour) from the white superiority. As Johannesburg, in a very short time after the discovery of its gold, became founded as a capitalist city ? ?a progeny of the nineteenth-century Industrial Revolution, no less than Manchester in the fi rst quarter of the century or Chicago in the last? (Chipkin 1993:5) ? the workhouse-type mine compound became an ideal agent for its advance as such. The compound and its policies became a rationalisation of control, order, systemisation and classifi cation, and through the phenomenon of forced labour, made useful and constructive citizens out of the country?s ?redundant? men. As South Africa?s prisons, and their prototypical mine compounds, were constructed in an era in which forced labour was so deeply engrained, current prison typologies are now nothing more than ?cattle housing institutions? (Oppler 1998:1). Historically, the large communal cells, fi tted with just a single toilet and designed to hold between 9 and 18 men15, were intended to function as ?dormitories? where prisoners would return to after a day?s labour. As these exact prisons remain 13 In 1903, a record 5022 black workers died on the mines. 14 After the impairing effects that alcohol was taking on the labour force became realised, mine owners and eventually the Chamber of Mines in 1896, prohibited the sale of liquor to blacks. This of course was ineffective and resulted in an underground culture of illegal syndicates and gangs (Brodie 2008: 56). 15 In severe cases, these cells now accommodate up to 60 men (Goyer 2001:6). Unsanitary and generally horrifi c living conditions left scores of labourers crippled by disease and often death (Kallaway 1986:18). ?Sunday treat at Ferreira?s Deep Gold Mine?, 1906 (Kallaway 1986:21). essay|51 < Today, South Africa?s prisons are characterised by overcrowded communal cells in which prisoners are detained for up to 23 hours a day, and where recidivist activity is (not surprisingly) exacerbated (photograph by Mikhael Subotzky). in operation today, where forced prison labour has been abolished in favour of more contemporary ideals16 ? the failure of which has resulted in prisoners ?simply lying around? (DA 2009 :1) ? they function as over-populated, criminogenic warehouses, where anti-social behaviour is proliferated and recidivist activity perpetuated. They offer no facilities to alleviate boredom, nor programmes (neither rehabilitational nor recreational) to stimulate mental activity, and are continuously plagued by overcrowding and assault, and thus violence, corruption and gangsterism17. 16 Hard labour in prisons was offi cially eradicated in 1959, although continued to be exploited until the dawn of the democratic state. The Correctional Services Act of 1998 fi nally abolished prison labour by stating that ?no inmate of a correctional facility may be compelled to work as a form of punishment or disciplinary measure? (DA 2009:1). 17 Prison gangs in South Africa have been in existence for over 100 years, and their organisation is nationwide. The two most powerful gangs, the 26s and 28s, which were in fact formed in the mine compounds of Johannesburg, still command prison life today (Goyer 2001:6). essay|53 reform n. to improve by alteration wrongful or harmful ways < The dual Revolution spurred on the development of new institutional archetypes - the most revolutionary of which was the factory. (http://www.life.com: 11/08/09). correction through reform The panopticon During the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries in Britain, and shortly afterwards across the world, technological advances in agriculture, manufacturing and transportation, generated a profound effect on both socio-cultural and socio- economic developments. The insurgency revolutionised the preceding cycles of crisis and stagnation through a rise in intellectual and scientifi c knowledge and a subsequent shift in social dynamics. As the developments of industrialisation in the city became more apparent, the idea that industry should be the sole medium of moral improvement within prisons collapsed and surrendered to a new attitude towards penal theory: ?correction? through reform, where social misfi ts were to be redeemed through the ?correction of their souls?1. In a very short space of time, and as an unprecedented increase in population relocated to the emerging industrial metropolises, the new industrial city became the subject of crisis. The city?s infrastructural inadequacies ? and in particular, its sanitary systems ? became apparent, and because there existed no formal instrument to control its development, its growth was irregular, chaotic, dense and ultimately detrimental. While the failings of the industrial city caused discomfort and protest, and exasperated poverty and disease, they too sparked a fundamental social reform. Together with the contemporaneous and similarly signifi cant intellectual revolution ? The Age of Enlightenment2 ? a key shift in both political theory and public opinion transpired. The reform that was provoked by the negative effects of the Revolution, together with the new and enlightened intellectual philosophy, became manifest in a revolutionary antidote: the modernist phenomenon of ?town planning?3 ? a spatial representation of the new legislation, that was constituted by both a technical approach to social engineering and an ideological, and oftentimes political, stance towards establishing a sense of ?Utopia?. Utopian city models, which involved singular, comprehensive and rationally ordered plans that were often geometrically abstracted (Benevolo 1967:129), began to be tested on all scales, and alternated between the ?harsh realities of industrial 1 This shift in penology is what Foucault (1977:131) refers to as the shift in ?technologies of punishment? from the retributive and public ?monarchical punishment? to the modern and reforming ?disciplinary punishment? where power is asserted over the ?other? (modern subject). 2 The Enlightenment movement, which succeeded the seventeenth century Age of Reason, exemplifi ed a shift in attitude from the ominous state of the human condition ? manifest in the failing city and doused in struggle and depression ? to a phase of optimism, where systematic thinking began to be applied to all spheres of activity. At the core of this intellectual upheaval, was a critical interrogation of traditional institutions, customs and morals that subsequently overturned the established and fi nite primary sources of knowledge ? mysticism and revelation ? rooted in irrationality and emotionalism, in favour of a more analytical and judicious approach. 3 The advent of town planning in the new industrial city was applied in either of two mechanisms: fi rstly, as an alternative to existing towns ? a ?complete ideological model, to be created, experimentally, de novo and independently from the original it set out to correct? (Benevolo 1967:35); or secondly, by addressing the technical needs of the mushrooming, but established industrial town by ?cur[ing] its individual defects? (Benevolo 1967:38). An illustration of industrial London showing its unrelenting density, haphazard overcrowding and pollution. Pictured here: Dore, G. Over London by Rail. (1872). (http://www.fl ickr.com: 02/07/08) Ledoux?s Utopian City of Chaux (1804), centred on the Royal Saltworks (1775), was considered the model industrial estate - a complex of factories, laboratories and workers? housing (Frampton 1980:16). essay|57 < Bentham?s panopticon ensured universal surveillance over all of its prisoners (http://www. jamblichus.wordpress.com:11/08/09). production and urbanisation? to a ?denial of the?reality of [the] machine? (Frampton 1980:9). In conjunction with city models, and in a similar vein, new Utopian building typologies were developed. Together with the newly discovered town planning techniques, archetypes such as the factory - the architectural prodigy of the Industrial Revolution - became ideal agents for the capitalist advance and began to be exploited as instruments of effi ciency and power. In an attempt to order, categorise and ultimately control the new and erupting capitalist society, institutional prototypes that marked a ?critical change in architecture? (Evans 1983:118), were engineered to accommodate those displaced by the newly engineered and capitalist society - a ?tradition? described by Vidler as the ?countering of one institution with another...? (1984:28). Housing schemes for the working class, boarding schools, elderly homes, sanatoriums and detention centres for social misfi ts, were formalised in an attempt to sanitise society by reconstructing the ?behaviour patterns of [the] new morality? (Vidler 1984:29). As a result, the modern institution became modelled around a set of distinct theoretical binaries - sane/mad, moral/immoral, right/wrong - that became spatially formalised in their architectural solution - in/out, transparency/ solidity, centre/edge. In 1785, philosopher, jurist and political reformer, Jeremy Bentham4, inaugurated the infamous archetype of the prison (and general institution) ? the ?panopticon?. Derived from the Greek pan- for ?all? and optic- for ?sight?, the panopticon was an architectural stratagem in both control and surveillance. The primary preoccupation of the scheme was to ensure that prisoners (or others in detention) be kept in solitary confi nement and under constant surveillance by a minimal number of authorities, who, from the ?eye? ? the centralised observation tower ? remained unseen, giving the illusion of ?the apparent omnipresence of the inspector?5 (Bentham 1843:45). Bentham?s Inspection Principle became ?a way of obtaining power, power of mind over mind, in a quantity hitherto without example? (Bentham 1843:39) and which utilised the agencies of confi scation and isolation to deter, and thus ?reform?, anti-social inclinations (Ballor 2006:26/03/08). The panopticon is characterised by a circular, and later polygonal, plan, the circumference of which, was occupied by 192 individual cells on four levels. ?Partitions in the form of radii issuing from the circumference towards the centre? divided the cells from one another (Bentham 1843:40) in order to prohibit interaction and communication between inmates. A central inspection area ? the ?inspector?s lodge? ? which was disjoined from the main building but circumvented by a buffer of enclosed circulation and/or exercise space, occupied the centre, and facilitated the universal observation of the inmates in their cells ? ?to the keeper, a multitude, though not a crowd; to themselves, solitary and sequestered individuals? (Bentham 1843:47). 4 Bentham, who is accredited as ?the father of modern utilitarianism? and the originator of ?the greatest happiness principle?, became the pioneer in producing a ?utilitarian justifi cation for democracy? (http://www.ucl.ac.uk: 30/06/08) by establishing an ?inspection house? ? ?a new principle of construction applicable to any sort of establishment, [although generally referred to by Bentham as a ?penitentiary house?], in which persons of any description [were] to be kept under inspection? (Bentham 1843:37). 5 The desubjectivisation of the inspector, and his ever-present but anonymous gaze and voice, is considered a fi ctional construction of God, intended to subconsciously coerce inmates into obedience and reform (Bo?ovi? 1995:11). An illustration of a prisoner in his cell at prayer before the observation tower (Foucault 1977:p1). An illustration of the Old People?s home of Ste- Perine, Paris (1861) - one of many institutions engineered in the interests of reform (Benevolo 1967:70). essay|59 < A sectional perspective of Bentham?s 1791 ?Penitentiary Panopticon? (derived from Bentham 1843:127). > Bentham?s 1791 half-plan, section and elevation for the ?Penitentiary Panopticon? (Bentham 1843:127). essay|61 < The inspectors lodge was engineered to < The inspectors lodge was engineered to ensure ?the apparent omnipresence of the ensure ?the apparent omnipresence of the inspector?. Pictured here: the Arnhem ?Koepel? inspector?. Pictured here: the Arnhem ?Koepel Prison (Koolhaas 1995:238).Prison (Koolhaas 1995:238) The outer circumference of the cells was punctured by windows, ?large enough, not only to light the cell, but, through the cell, to afford light enough to the correspondent part of the [inspector?s] lodge? (Bentham 1843:41) - which too was to be perforated by windows, but screened by blinds6. At night, ?small lamps, in the outside of each window of the lodge, backed by a refl ector, [were] to throw light into the corresponding cells? (Bentham 1843: 41) and were similarly engineered to ostensibly provide light, but shrewdly, to illuminate the prisoner and veil the watch. According to Bentham (1843:83-4), the functions of the panopticon assimilated those of an ?artifi cial body?, to be kept alive by the ?heart? ? the inspector?s lodge ? which would give it life and motion, ?issue all orders?, and ?centre all reports?. Instruction was additionally regulated by a bell to be hung from the centre of the observation tower, and in a more radical proposal in 17917, by a series of ?conversation-tubes? to be run between the inspector?s lodge and each cell. Through ?clock- work regularity? and in a similar fashion to the systemised factory, the panopticon was to emulate ?certainty, promptitude, and uniformity? (Bentham 1843:85), comparable to that of a machine. Bentham perpetuated his Utopian premise by suggesting a ?Panopticon Town? which would be grouped together and regulated by a single approach. Bentham envisaged a ?myriad of such institutions working in perfect harmony with the effortless effi ciency of precision engineering? (Semple 1993:323). His scheme, although prima facie intended for purposes of extended effi ciency and control, was to provide a ?pleasant excursion? for the public, who, upon arrival, would ?refresh themselves in the Panopticon Tavern ? [an] Aladdin?s cave of colour? (Semple 1993:295), where from visitors would be allowed to explore the compound and ultimately, from the inspector?s lodge, impudently view the contained prisoners. Bentham?s encouragement of this ?exotic entertainment? was considered essential to the successful management of his Inspection Principle (Semple 1993:295), whereby the prisoners? public spectacle would increase the magnitude of their ?apparent? suffering, without increasing their ?real? suffering (Bo?ovi? 1995:7). The original rotund form of the panopticon was ensued by a number of derivatives analogous to those of the model 6 Although the fenestration devices devised by Bentham appeared to be considered with rudimentary intent, their purpose was in fact deceptively twofold: the circumferential windows were formulated to backlight the activities of the prisoners, thereby subjecting them collectively to the scrutiny of the inspectors. 7 In his 1791 postscript (1843:67), Bentham amended the scheme by elaborating on, and altering several details: an ?annular well? to be crowned by a skylight, was to extend the entire height of the building, creating ?airiness, lightsomeness, economy, and increased security?; a centralised chapel, to displace the preceding upper levels of the inspection lodge, was intended to establish a system of penitence ? ?a point, [in this instance], rather to be assumed than argued?; annular ?inspection galleries?, backed by the chapel on the upper levels and by the inspection lodge on the lowest, for the purposes of increased surveillance; a series of external fortifi cations ? ?a system of outer walls, palisades, and ditches? (Semple 1993:121) ? to not only avert escapees, but to secure the inmates from hostile intrusion ? the introduction of which makes fi rst reference to contemporary institutional typologies, which are likewise characterised by concentric thresholds of exclusion; and lastly, an iron and glass construction, that not only put Bentham in the ?vanguard of the technology of his time? (Semple 1993:116), but astutely, and together with his formal reformation, also marked a material reform, whereby materiality began to be exploited, and in this case, for the facilitation of observation and surveillance (Philbrick 1991:13). An illustration representing the ?mode in which three Panopticons might be connected under one establishment? (Bentham 1843:126). An early sketch by Bentham illustrating his panopticon principle (Evans 1983:200). essay|63 < The discovery of gold on the Witwatersrand transformed the land-economy countryside into the industrial city of Johannesburg (Callinicos 1981:1). workhouse: the ?square? plan and the ?hexagonal? plan, fashioned around a similarly central observation tower, from where three or four orthogonal ?arms? - their lengths the ?function of the accuracy of a rifl e? (Philbrick 1991:13) - radiated outwards. In the middle of the nineteenth century, the panopticon was challenged by the ?separate system? which, rather than through surveillance, enforced reform through extreme isolation. Joshua Jebb?s Pentonville prison - the epitomy of the ?separate system? - was similar to Bentham?s panoptic scheme, as well as to the ?square? plan, and was devised around a centralised observation nucleus from where fi ve ?arms? radiated outwards - four for prisoner cells and the fi fth for administration. Outdoor exercise yards occupied the space between the orthogonal wings and in an extremist pursuit of isolation and sequestration, when exercising, prisoners were masked with ?brown cloth, with slots only for the eyes? and marched to and fro ?holding taut a rope knotted at 15 feet intervals? (Evans 1983:361). While Bentham?s institutional archetype was an ingenious (albeit perverse) manipulation of architectural form for the purposes of economy and expedient prisoner management8, it was too ?a singularly unconventional piece of engineering? (Evans 1983:220) that pioneered a global method for institutionalisation - still appropriated in many contemporary prisons (and institutions) today. Through its inherent utilitarian codes and architectonic regimes, the panopticon became analogous to the functioning of the machine, the systemisation of the factory, and thus to the general coordination of the industrial city, all of which induced order, control and concord. Similarly, Bentham?s scheme emulated the principles venerated by the Utopian town planners, both ingrained in idealism and romanticism, and realised through the technical categorisation of type and function ? a method unanimously referred to as ?social engineering?. Johannesburg and the Old Fort Complex In the late half of the 19th century, the rush for gold on the Witwatersrand bolstered the land economy of Johannesburg (and South Africa) into a capitalist-driven, cosmopolitan metropolis and an off shoot site of the Industrial Revolution. ?The great fl ood-tide of the Revolution that had once engulfed the hamlet of Manchester? had now lapped into the African interior and thrown up, fi rst at Kimberley, then at Johannesburg, the whole corpus of Victorian urbanisation? (Chipkin 1993:8). In a similar fashion, and at a similar pace to the European cities that had developed a century earlier, Johannesburg became a product of the phenomenal town planning and social engineering techniques that were disseminated to it by the infl ux of fortune-seeking colonialists and capitalists. ?Johannesburg, a town without history and an inland without river, was transformed into the most important town in South Africa? (Holm 1998:68). In order to control, systemise, classify, and 8 Contemporary social critics have equated the panopticon device to contemporary public surveillance techniques (Lang 2005:53), whereby technological developments have allowed for the deployment of invisible, panoptic structures throughout society, the most notable of which is closed-circuit television (CCTV). An illustration of masked prisoners exercising in the Pentonville prison (Evans 1983:362). An illustration of the Pentonville prison chapel where isolation was achieved through placing each prisoner in an individual wooden stall (Evans 1983:365). essay|65 < A perspective of Jebb?s 1840 Pentonville prison (Evans 1983:351). One of the four galleried cell blocks in the Pentonville prison (Evans 1983:352). > A plan of Jebb?s 1840 Pentonville prison (Evans 1983:350). essay|67 < The apartheid administration made prisoners out of ordinary, law-abiding South Africans. ultimately ?reform? its newfound industry and rapidly growing populace9, political, spatial and archetypal methods of planning began to be exploited on differing scales throughout the city. Most signifi cantly ? under the umbrella of ?social engineering? and the pretence of ?the betterment of lives? ? the overarching, socio-political system of apartheid was engineered10. In an industrialist vein, apartheid aimed to distinguish and categorise, and thus subdue those, not pertinent to or desired in the new city of capitalism, all the while ensuring their expedience as cheap labour. The fascist-tainted policies shifted the defi nition of ?criminal? in the ordinary sense to one which inherently criminalised non-white races. As a result, the apartheid system became ensconced in that of the prison (and mine compound), where the newly defi ned ?prisoners of race? were incarcerated for their ?crimes?. To bolster the notion of ?separateness? ? analogous to the ideals formalised in Jebb?s Pentonville prison ? reformed spatial practices became exploited in the layout of the emerging city. While town planning techniques were employed to order the haphazard and seemingly temporary mining town into a rational grid, they were too utilised in establishing racially- and class-oriented suburbs. ?The area [Johannesburg] was subdivided into mining and living areas, which were again subdivided into the land of the living, the land of the dead, and beyond that of the ?kaffi rs?? (Holm 1998:68). Initial plans for Johannesburg made a classist provision for the rich and the poor where the wealthy aristocrats lived in the leafy, northern suburbs of Parktown, and the white working class11 in dusty, western suburbs such as Burgersdorp, Vrededorp and Newlands. Jewish migrants were ?concentrated to the northeast of downtown Johannesburg in suburbs such as Doornfontein, Hillbrow, Berea and Yeoville? (Silverman 2009:13). Other, more established working classes settled in suburbs around the city centre, such as Fordsburg, Jeppestown, Malvern, Brixton and Mayfair. A large Portuguese community clustered in the southern suburbs of La Rochelle, Booysens and Rosettenville. Non-whites were forced to crowd in with the poorer, working classes in slum conditions in places like Ferreirasdorp, Malay Camp, Newtown, Fietas and lower Doornfontein (Silverman 2009:13). But, after the end of the Second World War, the slums were cleared and most of the non-whites relocated to dormitory 9 By 1895, only nine years after the discovery of gold, Johannesburg was reputed to be ?the largest urban place in Africa south of the equator, with a total estimated population of at least 80 000. Certainly in 1896 it was the largest urban place in Africa south of the Sahara, its population of almost 102 000 eclipsing that of Cape Town, established 244 years earlier? (Beavon 2004:6). 10 Although the notion of apartheid had existed in parts of colonial South Africa, and in particular the Cape, since the 19th century, it was only offi ciated by the National Government in 1948. In this case however, the industrialisation of Johannesburg spurred its development on the highveld and lead to the founding of early policies and legislation shrewdly enforced by a series of Acts and pass laws. 11 The white working class included many destitute and uneducated Afrikaans-speaking migrants who had been ?forced by drought, war and commercialised agriculture from the rural hinterland, where they had lived a marginal existence as bywoners or ?farm tenants?? (Silverman 2009:11). An 1886 map of Johannesburg shows the town?s fi rst stands and streets spliced by the east-west alluvial diggings belt (Author unspecifi ed 1986:9). Within a matter of months, the fl at, treeless Witwatersrand plain sprouted into a bustling town (Rosenthal 1974:31). essay|69 < The suburbs of early capitalist Johannesburg were segregated according to class and, due to the policies of apartheid, also by race (http:// www.msbeardsclass.com:11/08/09). An 1897 plan of Johannesburg indicates the blatant racial and cultural segregation of the city (Beavon 2004:48). essay|71 < A postcard of the Fort in the early 1900s indicates the new ramparts? role in severing the prison from the city (Seagal 2006:9). ^ The Johannesburg Jail in the 1890s and before the ramparts were built, was a collection of simple, rectangular structures not based on any specifi c prison typology (Seagal 2006:11). townships in the southernmost parts of the city12, and alongside unpleasant and anti-social industrial functions such the Klipspruit sewerage works and landfi ll plant. The displacement, which heralded the birth of Soweto, was made possible not only by the devices of planning and location, but also by the exploitation of landscape, where the east-west mining belt (and its dumps) severed the city from soon-to-be-Soweto, hemispherically. While the imported techniques of social engineering and town planning began to shape Johannesburg spatially, the industrial panopticon was also (and inevitably) introduced ? both idealistically and architecturally ? furthering the advance of the industrialists and also that of the state. As the ideals of the apartheid regime were no different to those of the European social engineers, the panoptic device proved ideal in bolstering their policies (albeit intuitively). The centrifugal panoptic and radial models can be equated with the town planning schemes appropriated to many of the government?s townships, where movement and activity were controlled through a similar mechanism of radiating streets that could be policed from a small number of centralised vantage points. The geometry of the system also ensured that, in the event of unrest and uprising, the townships could be quickly cordoned- off and the unruly masses imprisoned within. In 1910, Bentham?s panopticon as the institutional archetype ? the ?penitentiary house? ? was inaugurated at the city?s major prison in Braamfontein. The Women?s Gaol, situated within the Old Fort complex ? in fact more a derivation of Jebb?s radial Pentonville prison ? embodied the ideals of total surveillance and control and all in the interests of reform. The Old Fort prison complex, originally the Johannesburg Jail, was built as a maximum security facility in 1893 by the Boer President, Paul Kruger13. The complex, not based on any specifi c typology but rather a series of rectangular structures characterised by rows of cells on either side of a circulation passage14, was strategically located on Hospital Hill just north of the Johannesburg town centre. In addition to functioning as a prison, the complex was also intended as a look-out to ?keep control over the uitlanders or foreigners in the mining village below? (Seagal 2006:5). Furthermore, the Old Fort?s daunting and intimidating position furthered the advance of apartheid oppression ? comparable to the surveillance techniques employed in Bentham?s ?inspector?s lodge?. In 1896, and after the Jameson Raid, the ideally-positioned prison was converted into a military fort. In an attempt to bolster 12 After the forced removals, many Indian and coloured residents were permitted to remain in the suburb of Fietas and the Malay Camp (later Pageview). ?In the 1930s, coloured and Malay residents moved on to Coronationville and Albertsville, to the west of Johannesburg? (Silverman 2009:13). Many other coloured residents were moved into townships like Riverlea and Eldorado Park, while Indian residents were relocated to Lenasia, south of Soweto. 13 Paul Kruger was the president of the Zuid-Afrikaansche Republiek from 1880-1902 (Seagal 2006:5). 14 Although the confi guration of the Fort?s buildings were not characteristic of any specifi c typology, the cell-lined corridor can still be equated to panoptic principles where surveillance is afforded from a single, and thus effi cient, point. Orlando East in Soweto is one of many South African townships that was established in a panoptic confi guration. A sketch of the cell confi guration at the Old Fort illustrating its linear cellblocks. A sketch layout of the Old Fort complex illustrates the initial prison structures, the ramparts, and Women?s Gaol to its west. essay|73 < The Women?s Gaol - centrifugally arranged around a centralised atrium. military defenses (and later, the policies of apartheid), the complex was circumvented by a system of ramparts and bastions, which, while serving as vantage points, also housed the military?s arsenal15. ?The ramparts contained two bastions, one overlooking the town of Johannesburg to the south and one to the north guarding the road to Pretoria? (Seagal 2006:17). The Fort served as a jail until 1900 when, after the Anglo-Boer War, it was surrendered to the British and, paradoxically, reverted back to a prison intended to detain Boer soldiers. ?This marked the beginning of the long history of the Fort as a place of [militaristic] punishment, confi nement and abuse of prisoners of all political persuasions?16 (Seagal 2006:11). In 1902, and once the war was over, the Department of Public works reinstated the Fort as Johannesburg?s main prison, however, due to its increasing proximity to the mushrooming suburbs, was declared for temporary use pending the erection of a new prison. ?But this temporary arrangement was to stay in place for the next 80 years? (Seagal 2006:5). From 1902 onwards17, the ramparts, once used for the purposes of weapons storage, were assigned the function of prisoner?s cells ? a chilling analogy to the retributive methods employed in medieval dungeons three and four centuries prior. Moreover, the ramparts functioned as prison walls that both concealed the brutality practiced behind them and, in the method of modernist and Utopian sanitisation, ?blocked both common criminals and political prisoners off from the rest of society? (Seagal 2006:17). In 1910, the Old Fort was abutted to its west by the new and reformist Women?s Gaol18 designed to detain the new city?s female criminals - both those convicted of crimes in the ordinary sense, and those criminalised by the policies of apartheid. Like Bentham?s ?penitentiary house?, the core of the gaol?s radial plan was occupied by a centralised surveillance tower, known as the ?atrium? or ?oculus?, from where four ?arms?, two levels in height, radiated outwards, and which, afforded the prison matrons universal observation over the cell blocks. Like Bentham?s 1791 postscript for his panopticon, the atrium gallery was crowned by a skylight, which, while affording the watch ample visibility for the purposes of control, also reiterated the modernist concern for light (Fayman 2008:4). ?Contradictory to this however, [although not dissimilar to Bentham?s 1791 centralised chapel], the ocular atrium was used as a chapel on Sundays (Manganyi in Fayman 2008:4). In the interests of apartheid, the accommodation of prisoners was racially organised, where non-white and white women, as well as political and common law prisoners, were all kept separately. Non-white women were housed in four communal 15 Although no specifi c archetype was applied to the layout of the prison buildings at fi rst, the addition of the ramparts to the complex bore resemblance to that of the workhouse ?courtyard? model. 16 Punishments for transgressions within correctional centres was harsh and included whippings, solitary confi nement, dietary punishment and additional labour. 17 In 1902, the prison was extended by the addition of the infamously severe Section Four and Five, built to accommodate sentenced black males. 18 Construction of the gaol coincided with the Milner Administration?s importation of women to the city and as such, now refl ects signifi cant changes in Johannesburg?s gender demographics (Fayman 2008:3). A layout plan of the Women?s Gaol complex indicating the clear segregation of white and non-white prisoners. essay|75 < The double-volume core of the Women?s Gaol afforded the matrons radial views into the cellblocks. > A plan (bottom) and section (top) of the Women?s Gaol illustrating the centralised atrium from where all control and surveillance was administered - but in this case, which did not concern that of the white population. essay|77 < Over the century of its existence, the Old Fort complex became increasing enveloped by city fabric, and as such, was no longer considered a desirable location for its purposes as a prison. cells, often with up to seventy occupants in each, that occupied the two main wings of the prison, and which were directly adjoined and thus, surveyed, from the central atrium. Contrastingly, white women, were detained in four cells with only three prisoners in each, which were positioned in more private cell blocks on the southern perimeter of the site (Manganyi in Fayman 2008:6). Permanent overcrowding due to the frequent transgression of pass laws, together with a lack of facilities, meant that many non-white prisoners were housed in windowless, corrugated iron shacks, built in the northern court of the prison where they were compelled to make use of excretory buckets. The white prisoners however, were provided with private ablution facilities. In a resurgence of the ideals of the deterrents, prisoners were compelled to work for the profi t of the institution. White women worked for the Department of Public works and maintained the prison?s manicured fruit gardens, while nonwhite women were made to run a laundromat that ?not only serviced the entire prison complex, but the city at large? (Manganyi in Fayman 2008:6). When fi rst constructed, the Old Fort complex was situated on the outskirts of the city and beyond the industrialists? vision of Utopia, but, over time it became more and more engrained into the city fabric. Although plans to relocate the prisoners from the prime city hill had existed since the 1904 Commission of Inquiry, which ?declared the Fort unfi t, unsuitable for prisoners and incapable of being converted into a good prison (Bird in Seagal 2006:33), it was only on the 31st of January 1983 ? at the height of apartheid turmoil and unrest ? that all of its prisoners were eventually relocated to the purpose-built and similarly, but more ruthlessly, panoptic, Diepkloof prison in Soweto. From the coming of gold to Johannesburg, and until the Nationalist government?s dismissal in 1994, the city ? its policies, spatial planning and archetypes ? was a dissemination of industrial ideals. Armed with knowledge and the ?enlightened? notion of town planning and social engineering, the capitalists, both foreign and local, established Johannesburg through the reforming techniques of categorisation, control and ultimately marginalisation ? the modernist notion of control over the ?other?. Moreover, and in an effort to bolster the policies of the apartheid regime, panoptic structures governed by surveillance and effi ciency, were employed on varying scales throughout the city. Planning and architecture became exploited in developing a city (and society) that was categorised by type and function and which strove for the romanticism of Utopia. essay|79 rehabilitation n. to restore to a condition of good health, good character, ability to work , or the like < Rather than through institutional ?reform?, the contemporary ideals of rehabilitation are centred on restoration and reintegration back into society. Pictured here: the Volterra Maximum Security Prison in Italy, theatre rehabilitation programme (photograph by Sandro Michahelles in Provoledo 2009:28/07/09). correction through rehabilitation The new generation prison As the emergence of modernism in the middle of the 20th century and the societal shift towards a mostly-democratic globe once again transformed society from its purely capitalist roots, the third key method of ?correction? began to exhibit its shortcomings. As a result, the ideals of the penal ?reformers? were once again toppled by an alternative and present-day approach: ?correction? through rehabilitation, which rather than being centred on ?reform? through institutionalisation alone, is focused on offender restoration and reintegration back into society. While upholding the overarching historical goal of reducing crime, the ideals of the newfound policy challenge the ?prison threat theory? (Menninger cited in Muntingh 2001:6) by proposing a transcendental purpose to the system ? one where the prison can in fact be a constructive agent in the reduction of antisocial behaviour. The ideological shift in penal theory to that of rehabilitation can be attributed to a number of inter-related factors, such as the introduction of the modern autonomous state and along with it, the establishment of human rights, both of which command a more humane and holistic prison. But, more signifi cantly, a set of global phenomena ? the post-World War boom, the technological revolution, globalisation and migration across nations, which have saturated cities with a wide spectrum of cultures and creeds but in turn desaturated them of their moral fi bre and ethical consciousness ? have ignited a blaze of criminal activity and a subsequent increase in the population of the world?s prisons, thus rendering the preceding penal system inept and ineffective and in dire need of rigorous reform. In a knee-jerk reaction to the global prison crisis, and in order to restore the dwindling moral predicament of the late 20th century, considerable attempts were made at improving policy, prosecution and conviction rates, building new prisons and ensuring harsher sentences, and thereby enforcing the archaic methods of deterrence and reform, and in some cases, even retribution. But, the ameliorative efforts towards the malfunctioning prison proved futile, and only illuminated the inherent failures of the system. Together with signifi cant research that increasingly indicates the permanent physical, emotional and psychological damage that contemporary incarceration has on its prisoners1, and thus ultimately on society (Muntingh 2001:5), the existing penal system has been charged for proliferating recidivism or repeat offending, thereby proclaiming itself as entirely ineffective. As approximately 95% of prisoners are destined to return to their communities after serving their sentences (Goyer 2001:7)2, the theory of ?removing ?unwanted? or offending people from mainstream society and placing them in institutions where they are seemingly unable to offend society any further? (Muntingh 2001:4), is a system that is intrinsically paradoxical. 1 A study by the World Health Organisation of the effects of imprisonment or ?carceral suffering? on French inmates, revealed amongst others, that 33% of prisoners were unable to concentrate; after a year of incarceration, 50% could not control their memory adequately and 40% experienced sudden ?mind voids?; 75% experienced dizziness, described as a ?menacing emptiness?; many suffered from ulcers and fatigue; many had developed a hypersensitivity to noise; and as a result of confi ned space, many were reported as having experienced a deterioration of eyesight (Gonin cited in Muntingh 2001:27). 2 Although this is a South African statistic, those of other nations are not dissimilar. essay|83 < Through successful restoration and reintegration, the principles of rehabilitation challenge the existing prison island. Pictured here: the Beaufort West Prison (photograph by Mikhael Subotzky). After a solemn public ceremony we pronounce them enemies of the people, and consign them for arbitrary periods to institutional confi nement on the basis of laws written many years ago. Here they languish until time has ground out so many weary months and years. Then with the planelessness and stupidity only surpassed by that of their original incarceration they are dumped back on society, regardless of whether any change has taken place in them for the better and with every assurance that changes have taken place in them for the worse. Once more they enter the unequal tussle with society. Proscribed for employment by most concerns, they are expected to invent a new way to make a living and to survive (Menninger cited in Murphy 1985:56). In an attempt to curb the recurring and regressive rash of recidivist behaviour that plagues the contemporary prison, and in so doing, mitigate its chaos and congestion, the contemporary ideals of rehabilitation, which encompasses those of restoration and reintegration, have been adopted worldwide. The restoration model, while not undermining the relevance of fair and humane imprisonment, promotes in the offender, what those preceding it aimed to annihilate: personal empowerment, mutual respect and moral responsibility ? where a certain degree of agency over environment is encouraged. Moreover, the methodology re-establishes a ?clear connection between crime and punishment? (Muntingh 2001:41) ? as previously disengaged by the archaic prison island ? by constructively holding the offender directly accountable for his or her actions and thereby re-humanising the crime. While the historical notion of punishment aimed to ?correct? offending behaviour by removing the misdemeanant from society, the contemporary one of rehabilitation is opposing, and promotes kinship by bringing the offender back into a network or ?community of good citizens? (Muntingh 2001:8). Although selected public and political opinions continue to promote the archaic ?lock-up and throw away the key? approach ? that which too supports the deterrent approach of prisoner suffering through abominable conditions ? it must be asserted that, while the reintegrative model appears to be ?soft on crime?, it is in fact considered vital in avoiding the ricocheting effects of recidivism, and thus, for the general good of all society, the approach must be embraced3. During the second half of the 20th century and as the new ideologies of the rehabilitators were emerging, architectural solutions for the new rehabilitative prison were contemporaneously conceived. Along with several other strategies, such as the British ?corridor plan? and its succeeding ?houseblock?, the American ?new generation prison? became the modern exemplar to the ideals of the new system. Although not as momentous as Kempthorne?s workhouse or as revolutionary as Bentham?s panopticon, the prison model represents an archetype that challenges the outmoded typologies of its predecessors, by establishing a set of reformed design principles. The new generation model is characterised by a decentralised, campus-type layout where the buildings are either dispersed 3 While the reintegrative model attempts to improve the current global penal crisis, it does not pledge nor claim to cure all of society?s crime woes, nor does it suggest itself as the exhaustive solution for such. essay|85 < The principles of the new generation model challenge existing, megalomaniac prison typologies (top) with a decentralised, campus-style layout of house units attached to centralised facilities (below). Pictured here: FCI Otisville, New York State (GBHO 1985:11). over the site or, in a multi-leveled condition, stacked vertically. The new generation prison is commonly characterised by a series of housing units or ?houses?, all linked to a centralised facilities ?street? that is programmed by functions such as administration, but also by rehabilitative ones such as vocational training and industries, amenities, and recreation. The principle of the differentiated ?house? unit is intended to allow fl exibility in management styles, spatial arrangement, and inherent security measures, and thus to allow a logical classifi cation and grouping of prisoners accordingly. One of the fundamental characteristics of the new generation prison is its elimination of the institutional ?corridor? that, while no longer affording effi cient and centralised supervision, allows the ?physical separation of the population into discrete, manageable units? (GBHO 1985:15) and thus improved interaction between staff and prisoners4. Moreover, the separated and identifi able house unit gives the individual prisoner the notion that ?he or she has a sense of place in the largeness of the institution? (GBHO 1985:78). Separate and self-contained house units, designed to accommodate a maximum of 75 inmates, are arranged around a central and multi-use space5 ? the dayroom ? where inmates are free to engage in religious, educational and recreational activities. Each unit is equipped with a dedicated but controlled outdoor recreation space, a satellite kitchen serviced by a central one, laundry facilities and telephone booths. Around each dayroom, prisoner cells are clustered into groups over two levels and access the double volume multi-use space via a set of landings and stairs. Sanitation facilities are provided to each cell cluster. Large windows on all levels provide unrestricted views out. A dedicated management team located within each unit is responsible for monitoring and administering the group, alongside which, central support facilities such as classrooms and libraries, as well as visitation rooms, are located. The new South Africa As the preceding ideals of correction became challenged across the globe by the new penal method of ?correction? through rehabilitation, the South African prison system experienced a similar reform, albeit half a century later. While partly attributed to the global moral degeneration that has begun to plague societies, the failing South African prison can be held more directly liable to a more local phenomenon: the authoritarian state and its recent ejection. As the societal shift from apartheid to democracy brought with it the ?uncertainties and diffi culties of a new economy, new institutions, and an entirely new government? (Goyer 2001:4), but also in its newfound freedom, a mass migration to the cities and in turn an overloaded and desperately unemployed society, the prevalence of criminal activity soared. It was in the power vacuum ?created by the collapse of the old communist systems? (King cited in Oppler 1998:7) ? where weakened state and social controls were inescapable, and where the shortcomings of the apartheid regime effected general defi ance and rebellion ? 4 Although the new generation model requires an increased number of skilled staff members, and thus a decrease in panoptic-type surveyors, increased interaction for development, (emotional) care, and development purposes is essential in achieving successful reintegration. 5 Although the centralised dayroom is analogous to the confi guration of the centrifugal panopticon, it is in fact disparate as, in the new generation model, the central space is occupied by prisoners themselves rather than surveyors. The new generation notion of ?sense of place? extends transitionally from the individual room of the ?house? (top), to the house itself (middle), to the total institutional community (bottom) (GBHO 1985:78). The new generation typology is characterised by a series of ?houses? connected to an internal ?street? of facilities (GBHO 1985:80). essay|87 < The new generation prison eliminates the ?corridor? in favour of decentralised units. Pictured here: a dayroom in the 1975 Metropolitan Correctional Centre, New York (GBHO 1985:8). >> A layout plan (top) and section (bottom) of a new generation house unit, illustrates the centralised, double-volume dayroom around which, the split-level cells are arranged (GBHO 1985:11). > A sectional perspective illustrates the relationship of the split-level cells with the centrally positioned dayroom (GBHO 1985:11). essay|89 < The restorative justice technique shifts the traditional retributive defi nition of ?crime as an offence against the state? to one as an ?offence against the victim? (photograph by Mikhael Subotzky). that antisocial behaviour became manifest. Moreover, ?and with apartheid as its rich cousin?the abusive prison system ? [the microcosm of South Africa?s socio-political history] ? bred contempt for respect among human beings. In marginalising prisoners, it created a class of people with a destructive identity, no purpose in life and therefore no future? (?Paul? in Various Authors 2002:2). As a result, ?violence in South Africa has come to be regarded as an inescapable means of resolving social, political, and even domestic confl icts? (DCS 2005:51). Moral degeneration in South Africa is also largely attributed to dysfunctional family structures ? plagued by apartheid and the migrant labour systems ? where a diminished emphasis on family structures and a vacuum of morally-conscious role models reverberates through society and in many cases, becomes expressed through crime. In a similarly knee-jerk and politically-motivated response to that of other states, and in order to curb the escalating crisis of crime and overcrowding in prisons6, the new democratic government implemented a series of judicial policies that tightened the belt on sentencing procedures. The Criminal Justice Amendment Act of 1997 introduced a zero-tolerance system of minimum sentencing and stricter bail conditions, which, while intended to relieve the growing prison dilemma, in fact aggravated it to a position of disrepair. Together with an unacceptably high increase in awaiting-trial detainees7 ? a direct result of an ineffective judicial system ? the South African prison has, in an alarmingly short space of time, become wrought by over-crowding8 and chaos, recidivism and disease, all the while plagued by the militaristic legacy of the past. In order to solve the burgeoning crisis of South Africa?s prisons, and in a similar vein to the international community, the Department of Correctional Services has recently adopted the methods of rehabilitation as its central focus (alongside security). Although fi rst suggested in the 1994 White Paper on Corrections in South Africa, the 2005 Paper clearly states the Department?s commitment to the values of rehabilitation and restoration in the care and reintegration of post-prisoners (see Appendix 1:11). Moreover, and in a further attempt to control the regressive cycle of recidivist behaviour estimated at approximately 90%9 and which costs the South African state in excess of R7 billion annually10, the Paper challenges the notion that ?prisons [remain] an expensive way of making bad people worse? (Oppler 1998:34). More recently, and in an attempt to restore the mutual respect that is considered lacking in modern societies, the technique 6 It must be noted, that while the South African prison population increased dramatically from 1995 onwards, it was in fact fi rst alleviated by the release 57 000 prisoners in 1992, many of whom were detained for political reasons (Oppler 1998:7). 7 In January 2009, departmental statistics indicated that Awaiting Trial Detainees (AWD) in South Africa?s prisons occupied 30% of its total inmate population. Moreover, the statistics indicated that in facilities with a maximum capacity of 25000, the current population of AWDs was approximately 49477 - suggesting an overpopulation of 200%. 8 Current statistics declare the general over-population of South Africa?s prisons at 143% (DCS 2009). 9 The rate of recidivism in South Africa has been estimated at between 85% and 94% (Ballington 1998:57), although a more recent approximation tends towards 94% (PMG 2008:2). 10 Departmental statistics reveal the cost of incarceration per inmate per day at R123.37, amounting to a daily expenditure of over R20 million (DCS 2009). essay|91 < The new Malmesbury A (top) and private Bloemfontein (bottom) prisons embrace the new generation typology through the establishment of decentralised ?houses? connected to a facilities ?street?. of ?restorative justice? (or victim-offender reconciliation) has been adopted and aims to initiate a system whereby all affected parties are actively involved in the criminal justice process ? where ?government is responsible for preserving order [but] the community? for establishing peace? (Maepa 2005:1) ? described by Muntingh (2001:8) as the fortifi cation of the ?community of good citizens?. Moreover, the restitution theory promotes social reintegration as a crime prevention tool in place of the historic method of ostracism and punishment (Maepa 2005:4)11. Restorative justice ?defi nes a crime as an offence against a person and a relationship,? as opposed to the retributive model that defi ned it as a ?breach of law and therefore an offence against the state and its legislation? (Muntingh 2001:7). Through the introduction of public and victim participation, the restitution theory intends not only to restore moral consciousness and personal responsibility by ?holding the offender accountable for [his/her] actions? (Batley 2005:29), but also aims at restoring the rights of the victim. ?Guilt is admitted, hurt is revealed, restitution is explored, commitment about future behaviour is made, and the responsibility for carrying out obligations is shared? (Maepa 2005:4). In this instance, but while serving the sentence, the offender may be required to make an apology12, pay a fi ne, return stolen property and/or complete community work. While seemingly radical, the key tenets of the restitution process are in fact analogous to those practiced historically throughout indigenous communities, and in particular African ones, since the dawn of civilization. Central to the African legal system, and while avoiding as far as possible, the marginalisation of the offender from his/her community, is the concern to restore moral consciousness - most often through ?shaming? - and ensure restitution to the victim, the family and the community13. The adoption of the restoration model illustrates a somewhat paradoxical shift in penal theory back to medieval modes where the prison was not the primary means of ?correction? but a mere container for its purposes. Moreover, current restitution techniques that require community participation and ?shaming? are analogous to the medieval methods of public scorn and ridicule, similarly rooted in the restoration of personal responsibility and moral consciousness. In South Africa, the ideals of rehabilitation have been recently implemented in a number of new prisons, but most notably in the Malmesbury A Prison completed in 1997. Like its new generation precedents, and in conjunction with a new management system, it has adopted the decentralised ?house? and ?street? typology where ten housing units, each accomodating approximately 50 prisoners, are clustered in groups around an education centre, recreation centre, workshops and football 11 American research conducted in the 1990s has shown that mediation projects result in a ?greater satisfaction? for both victims and offenders (Messmer cited in Oppler 1998:28). 12 Australian criminologist, John Braithwaite, has coined the term ?reintegrative shaming? or ?conscience-building?, and argues that ?sanctions imposed by people who are personally relevant to the wrongdoer have more effect than those imposed by a ?remote legal authority??. He attributes this to the fact that people will want to behave differently after being ?shamed? (Braithwaite cited in Oppler 1998:30). 13 Several post-1994 initiatives in South Africa have in fact indicated the state?s intention to incorporate similarly restorative principles into policy development. Key among them was the 1996 National Crime Prevention Strategy (NCPS) which advocated a shift away from the state-centred approach to justice towards one that gives greater emphasis to victims and restorative justice. essay|93 < Although the ideals of rehabilitation have been adopted by the Department, its prisons are continuously plagued by the regressive cycle of recidivist behaviour (photograph by Mikhael Subotzky). fi elds, aimed to ?encourage self-development and education? (Oppler 1998:27). Each house, comprised of both single and double cells, is self-contained and equipped with a kitchen, dining area and laundry room, and managed by a unit manager and four case management supervisors. Similarly, the cells are fi tted with beds, lockers, desks and chairs, and privately- positioned ablutions facilities. Although some advance has been made in implementing the new ideals of rehabilitation and reintegration into the South African prison system ? evident in pilot projects such as the Malmesbury A prison, as well as in the two privatised prisons recently constructed in Bloemfontein and Makhado ? the existing prison complex remains stagnant and in the grips of malfunction, and while accommodating a much larger population of prisoners, is afforded comparatively little consideration. Moreover, and even with respects to the new generation models recently implemented in South Africa, the prison complex remains sited on the urban periphery as an anti-urban, asocial island - an ironic gesture when the reintegrative needs of rehabilitation are considered. While the provision of bigger, better facilities is vital in humanely accommodating the booming South African offender population, it is by no means a long-term or sustainable solution, and continues to fail at prioritising the underlying and most signifi cant issue facing the Department: that of recidivist behaviour, which without signifi cant reform, will continue to aggravate the current prison complex into a paradoxical cycle of decline. essay|95 < In order to ensure that the prison achieves its ultimate goal of reintegration, it will need to undergo signifi cant reform. conclusions Throughout its history, the penal system and its allied methods of imprisonment have been aimed at deterring crime, through varying degrees of severity and science. But, the contemporary prison appears to have lost sight of this goal by becoming a ?self-serving and repetitive institution? (Muntingh 2001:39), wrought by recidivism and which serves only the single purpose of detainment. ?Throughout the world, people [have been] imprisoned in large numbers without it having resulted in any signifi cant reduction in crime. The threat of punishment does not appear to have [had] any signifi cant impact in preventing people from committing offences? (Muntingh 2001:11), and as such, presents a great moral dilemma to both the penal system and society. In South Africa, where sociopolitical circumstance and a deep-rooted history of insular and militaristic apartheid policy continues to plague the penal system, the state of the prison is no different. While advance has been made in the directions of global rehabilitative and reintegrative trends, the existing prison complex remains an ironic and archaic archetype, spatially inconducive to accommodating the contemporary ideals it pledges to adopt. Through the employment of engineered typologies ? introvertly designed through opposing lenses of ?correction? ? as well as through the exploitation of devices such as landscape, location and town planning, the prison has historically been envisaged as an inaccessible, anti-urban and asocial island ? now which, through its disengagement, impedes the realisation of contemporary ideals. Without immediate and signifi cant reform, the prison complex will remain in the grips of recidivist activity - the product of its (and other societal) failures - and thus continue to exist as a criminogenic warehouse that ?does nothing to change the environment that produced the criminal behaviour in the fi rst place? (Jeffery 1977:xx), nor informs ?a desire to effect personal change? (Alsop 2006:4). In order to remedy the quandary of the prison institution, and in particular that of existing ones, several fundamental issues regarding both its urban positioning and architectural form, need to be addressed with the ideals of the new generation model in mind. How can existing megalomaniac prison typologies be transformed to become more rehabilitative? How can the prison - constrained by security - be more public and urban? What will an urban prison, centred on rehabilitation and reintegration, look like? essay|97 ?After a spell in prison the young man involved in petty crime has become a person who rejects society?s values as society has rejected him.? (Vivian Stern 1998. A Sin against the Future.) s i t e 2 < In 1983, warders and prisoners left the Old Fort and relocated to the new Diepkloof prison (Ranger 2006:34). the diepkloof prison The Diepkloof prison, also known as the Johannesburg Prison but colloquially as ?Sun City?1, is sited on the southern fringes of the city in the Baralink zone ? strategically positioned between the eastern sector of Soweto and the southern suburbs of Greater Johannesburg and its CBD. During the apartheid years, the Baralink area was established as a buffer to Soweto and in typical fashion ? analogous to the practices employed by the European industrial city planners ? was programmed by unpleasant and anti-social industrial functions such as the Orlando Power Station and Dam, whose cooling towers and smokestacks now characterise the eastern Soweto skyline, the Klipspruit and Goudkoppies Sewage Treatment Plants and landfi lls, industrial zones such as Devland and Aeroton, the Baragwanath Hospital, and by the Doornkop Military Base and Diepkloof Prison complex ? no doubt established to keep the peace in Soweto and the riffraff out of the city. The Baralink zone is also characterised by a labyrinth of arterials: the N1, the N12, the M1, the Golden Highway and Old Potch Road, which all contributed to its (and thus Soweto?s) remoteness from the Johannesburg metropolitan. Construction of the Diepkloof Prison complex was completed in the early 1980?s at the height of apartheid turmoil and unrest, and as the Nationalist government?s failing ideologies and institutions began to become apparent. The state?s investment into both the prison and military base complexes is indicative of its grave efforts in trying to regain control of the uprising black population. Until then, the Old Fort complex in Braamfontein, had served as the city?s major gaol, and although plans to relocate the prisoners from the prime city hill had existed since the 1904 Commission of Inquiry, it was only on the 31st of January 1983, that its prisoners were eventually relocated to the purpose-built Diepkloof prison. Unlike other major South African prisons ? largely nondescript and often typifi ed by the courtyard model and its derivations ? the typology of the Diepkloof prison is far more radical and a clear product of the dissemination of global forces on local practices. Although constructed only 26 years ago, the prison typology is in fact a crude derivation of Bentham?s 18th century panopticon, known as the ?radial? model, and which, after its application by Joshua Jebb at Pentonville in the 1840?s, became exalted as the ?model prison?. The geometric, radial plan, although typifi ed by an asterisk of linear cellblocks rather than a panoptic circumference of cells, is similarly centred on a central hub, from where all control and surveillance is effi ciently administered. Similarly to the panopticon?s inner space, the typology is too characterised by a buffer of enclosed, surplus space between it?s ?wings?, commonly utilised for functions such as recreation. As the ideals of the apartheid regime were no different to those of the modernist social engineers, the inverted panoptic prison that was inserted into Soweto was ideal in bolstering the policies of Apartheid. 1 ?Sun City? inherited its bizarre nickname shortly after its opening and when prisoners who were relocated from the Old Fort, amongst others, to Sun City equated its ?luxury? ? beds, mattresses, ?better food and clean blankets?, and pristine condition ? to that of the Sun City pleasure resort in the North West province?s Pilanesberg (Thloloe in Ranger 2006: 33). The Baralink buffer disengages Soweto from the southern suburbs of Greater Johannesburg. Although geometrically disparate, the panoptic and radial models are similarly centrifugal and controlled from a central hub. site|101 < The cooling towers and smokestacks of the Orlando Power Station and Dam now characterise the eastern Soweto skyline (photograph by Solly van Staden). > The Baralink buffer zone is characterised by a myriad of anti-social industrial functions (after GJMC 1998:fi g 4.1). < The Diepkloof prison complex - home to approximately 11000 people. site conditions The Diepkloof prison ? the largest in the southern hemisphere ? was built to accommodate almost 5000 prisoners in four independent buildings, although overcrowding has sent this number soaring up to an average capacity of 11000 or 220%1 (Ramsewaki 2009). The complex detains both male and female in various categories: Medium A for awaiting trial detainees (ATD?s), maximum security Medium B for sentenced convicts, Medium C for sentenced convicts enrolled in the Centre of Excellence programme, and fi nally, the female section2. Administration and security is managed locally through a hub adjoined to each building, but also through a centralised administration complex. The north-east of the site extends to accommodate warder?s lodging and its associated facilities, while the south-west is largely unoccupied but, for a catchment dam and the Diepkloof Spruit which snakes through the lower parts of the prison site towards the Orlando Dam. In a similar vein to the establishment of Johannesburg?s mine compounds, the prison complex is no more than an assemblage of communal cells and exercise yards, originally intended for warehousing its inmates as labour commodities. The prison offers no notable facilities or programmes through which boredom can be alleviated or mental activity stimulated but, for a vacant football pitch-sized area attached to Medium B. The Centre of Excellence programme, claimed by the Department of Correctional Services as the ?fundamental starting phase? at offender rehabilitation and reintegration, accommodates 300 prisoners ? just less than 3% of the total population ? and offers an environment in which self-study through institutions such as UNISA, but personally funded by the inmate, is made possible (Ramsewaki 2009). Although the programme is ?committed to [the] adequate provision of all services ? mandatory or optional [and as outlined in the 2005 White Paper on Corrections] ? ranging from security, development, care, corrections, facilities and after care? (http://www.dcs.gov.za), it remains an isolated initiative that fails to address the larger prisoner population but also the inappropriate confi guration of the prison?s dormitory-style layout. The Diepkloof prison complex is situated along Main Road which separates it from the suburbs of Naturena and Comptonville to the south and Meredale to the east. Main Road, an extension of Rifl e Range, connects the site to the Southgate Mall in the north-east, and the Kaizer Chiefs Training Village and Golden Highway in the south-west. The main entrance and visitor?s reception are situated along Main Road and opposite a muddle of commercial functions that have been identifi ed as a potential node of intensity by the Baralink Framework: a petrol station; a medical centre; Tinty?s convenience mart of grocery store, bottle store, butcher, take-away shop and tavern; a glazing shop; and on the corner, the Comptonville hardware, take-away shop, internet cafe, hair salon and supermarket. The prison?s proximity to the existing urban fabric, makes it an extraordinary sample when compared to other institutions of this nature ? commonly strewn towards the urban periphery ? and makes apparent, the bipolar relationships between prison and street, inside and outside. 1 Annually, the festive season accounts for an increase in population of up to 300% or 15000 (Ramsewaki 2009). 2 Medium A was designed for a population capacity of 2350, although currently accommodates approximately 7000; Medium B for 1100, but houses an average of 3000; Medium C for 300, of which its actual population is similar; and the female section for 940, while currently accommodating 1100 (Ramsewaki 2009). site|105 < The Diepkloof prison is in unusually close proximity to the residential suburb of Naturena to its south. >> EXISTING SITE PLAN A Medium A: awaiting-trial B Medium B: sentenced men C Medium C: Centre of Excellence F Female: sentenced women 1 central administration 2 warder lodging & facilities 3 main entrance 4 visitor reception & parking 5 petrol station 6 medical centre 7 Tinty?s convenience mart 8 glass shop 9 Comptonville hardware 10 take-away, internet cafe, hair salon 11 Comptonville supermarket 12 informal taxi stop 13 informal car wash & vehicle repairs EXISTING SITE PLAN | 1:5000 1 2 3 4 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 A B C F MEREDALE NATURENA COMPTONVILLE main roa d main roa d diepkloof spruit golden highwa y The city fabric continues to encroach its way into the anti-urban, asocial realm of the prison island. < The disparities between the bipolar prison and city are unmistakable. > Despite the prison?s overwhelming presence, the Naturena commercial strip continues to thrive. The prison is buffered from the city by a destitute no-man?s land. < The Baralink framework identifi es the commercial strip opposite the prison entrance and visitation reception as an ?opportunity for [increased] commerce and industry?. the baralink framework In the 1990?s, a development framework for the Baralink zone was commissioned, and since then, critical sections of it implemented. The framework is committed to the integration of residential Soweto with the commercial core of Greater Johannesburg ? a reversal of its ?built-in segregation? (Thorne 1996:5) ? through providing catalytic and compact urban infi ll parcels intended to attract investment and activity to the area. ?Although Baralink has historically separated Soweto from Johannesburg, the area [will] now perform the strategic function of being the ?Gateway to Soweto?? (Arup 1999:4). The framework outlines six precincts that possess development potential, one of which is the 120 Ha Doornkop Military Base and Diepkloof Prison precinct which falls within the south-eastern boundary of the study area1. In an attempt to disband the site?s autocratic movement patterns and reconnect it with Greater Soweto, initial proposals for the area advocate a number of new regional roads: a new north/south link proposed to cut through the lower portions of the extensive Diepkloof prison site and military base beyond, adjoining with Main Road in the south and Old Potch Road in the north; an extension of Main Road across the Golden Highway and underneath the N1 intended to connect the site to Klipspruit and then onto Orlando West; and an extension of Aerodrome Road across Old Potch Road to connect with the proposed extension of Main Road. In addition to the physical integration of the precinct through the establishment of connector routes, the site has also been identifi ed as a ?sustainable node of intensity?. A variety of land uses are proposed for the site, and in particular, for the dormant military base. Commercial and retail uses are to face onto the regional roads, and together with high-density residential developments, are to compose ?local district centres?. Small businesses are proposed to connect these centres to each other and to the (existing) low, medium and high density residential uses that are to comprise the majority of the remaining land (GJMC 1998:101). More specifi cally, the framework identifi es the existing Naturena commercial strip and prison complex entrance zone as one such ?local district centre? and an ?opportunity for commerce and industry? (Thorne 1996:54). The vacant land to the south of the prison complex ? that which will be severed from it by the proposed Naturena connector route (Flora Street ext) ? has been earmarked for open green space, recreational and residential use2 (Thorne 1996:60). As the Baralink proposals not only assist in the connection of Soweto with Greater Johannesburg, they too (perhaps inadvertently) promote the integration of the Diepkloof prison precinct with its immediate context ? a vital (if not most essential) proposition for the purposes of bridging the bipolar notions of prison and city, and thus successfully reintegrate post-prisoners back into society. As such, the proposals and more idealistically-relevant context for the site have been adopted for the purposes of this project. 1 The remaining fi ve development precincts are the Gateway, Orlando, Elias Motsoeledi, Vista Educational and Environmental, and Orlando Triangle precincts (Arup 1999:12). 2 The 15.3 Ha site is suggested to accommodate 2000 people in 400 housing units (Thorne 1996:114). Through the establishment of several regional connector routes, the Baralink framework is committed to disbanding Soweto?s autocratic movement patterns. site|115 < The Baralink framework proposes the establishment of several new regional roads that are to slice through, and connect, the military base and prison precinct to Soweto and beyond. > The Baralink framework identifi es the military base and prison precinct as a ?sustainable node of intensity? and proposes urban infi ll of commercial, residential and recreational land uses. site|117 < The recently completed Baralink transport interchange in Diepkloof sets a precedent for the node proposed opposite the prison complex (photograph by Andrew Bell). >> ADOPTED SITE PLAN A Medium A: awaiting-trial B Medium B: sentenced men C Medium C: Centre of Excellence F Female: sentenced women 1 central administration 2 warder lodging & facilities 3 main entrance 4 visitor reception & parking 5 med-density residential development 6 mixed-use development 7 open green/recreational space 8 petrol station 9 retail/commerce strip node of intensity ADOPTED SITE PLAN | 1:5000 MEREDALE NATURENA COMPTONVILLE main roa d golden highwa y main roa d diepkloof spruit 1 2 A B C F 3 45 5 6 5 5 5 9 9 9 7 8 fl ora street ex t fl ora stree t < Diepkloof?s ruthless Medium B prison from Main Road. medium B Medium B, which has a maximum detainee capacity of 1100 but currently accommodates in the order of 3000, is the second largest and most notorious section of the Diepkloof prison. Of the total population, the maximum security facility is home to approximately 900 (30%) maximum-sentence, 1850 (62%) medium-sentence, and 240 (8%) short-sentence male detainees1. While the facility hosts the majority of the convicted prisoner population in the most severe conditions, it too has the most immediate relationship with both the complex?s main entrance and visitation reception2, and also with the street and all of its functions. Medium B?s location on the site renders it the building with the most acutely disparate relationship to its context. Like the others on the site, Medium B is panoptically arranged around a centralised circulation core ? stairwells and a helixing ramp ?wide enough to fi t a vehicle? (Cook 2009) ? from which fi ve ?wings? of cellblocks, three levels in height, radiate outwards. Also connected to the core is the prison kitchen and dining hall, succeeded by the the Medium B administration hub that serves the purpose of visitation, admissions, security and general management. In the surplus segment between the wings, and divided along the wagon-wheel?s imaginary radii, are large and enclosed exercise yards that serve their adjacent cellblock. At the end of each wing two large stairwells connected to each passage, give access to the exercise yards. A football pitch-sized enclosure adjoins the building?s lower wings and connects to its respective yards. Internally, two levels of communal cells and a third for the purposes of isolation, constitute a typical cell arrangement that is replicated throughout. Each wing is spliced by a central, open-air service duct that runs from centre to edge. On the outer fa?ades of each wing runs the passage, lit and ventilated by concrete grill blocks, and which links the central hub to the cells. Sandwiched between each passage and the duct are the chain of detention cells, artifi cially lit and indirectly ventilated through the duct3 and the passage. Clusters of narrow casement windows, griddled with security bars, open each cell onto the passage and duct, and via the 2m wide duct, onto the windows of the mirrored cell chain on the opposite side of the wing. Each cell is long and narrow and at one end, fi tted with a toilet, basin, and shower ? ?all without doors. Two rows of bunk beds fi ll the rest of the space? (Selepe 2001:1). On the upper level of isolation cells, the circulation passage also serves the purpose of high-security exercise yard, and as such, is screened by a solid concrete wall. 1 These categories were computed according to the Department?s most current national statistics on sentence-length of April 2009 (www.dcs.gov.za). 2 The visitor?s reception services the entire prison complex and is open for visitation on Saturdays and Sundays from 9h00 until 15h00. After registering for visitation, the visitor is collected and transported via bus to the relevant visitation section 3 Insuffi cient maintenance and inadequate facilities in the cells have however, rendered the ducts pits of leaking sewage, garbage and even human excrement that is continuously fl ung out of the cell windows, and which ultimately re-impregnates them with an appalling stench (Cooks 2009). A layout plan of the Medium B complex. Medium B is located on the southern perimeter of the prison complex, and as such, has an immediate relationship with the street and all of its existing and proposed functions. site|121 < Internally, the two chains of cells back-to- back onto an open-air service duct. << The long cells are packed with two rows of bunks ?with three or four to a bed? (Selepe 2001:1). ^< A circulation passage, lit and (somewhat) ventilated by concrete grill blocks, fringes the cells. (plan showing layout, entrances, exercise yards, football pitch etc.) > A ground fl oor plan of Medium B illustrates the centralised core from where all control is administered, and all circulation emanates. The plan also shows the long, communal cells and their relationship to the internal service duct and the peripheral circulation passages. A typical section through the cellblock illustrating the detention cells sandwiched between the service duct and circulation passage. site|123 TIME TO KILL | Laurence Cramer 14 August 2009 Two weeks ago I was getting ready to go to work, wearing a crisp white shirt and polished shoes that match my Italian suit. The doorbell rang and I answered to the sheriff of the court who had in hand instructions to detain me for 30 days in prison for contempt of court relating to a maintenance case. I told my girlfriend what was going on, changed out of my suit pants into some jeans, and handed myself over. I wasn?t scared of going to prison. I am a 6ft3 100kg man, I served in the Special Forces reporting directly to the Offi cer Commanding Special Forces in Pretoria: I was one of those boys your mother warned you about. Very few things frighten me. Going to prison would be like the basic training, only with fewer weapons, and wearing orange. Uncomfortable, but a case of mind over matter. The sheriff couldn?t fi nd Diepkloof prison, confessing that he hadn?t taken a civil case there in 10 years. I knew the south of Johannesburg well having worked there for seven years -- so I made some route suggestions and we arrived at Diepkloof, a light brick-faced monstrosity surrounded by barbed wire, high fences and guards. There are no windows visible from the outside. The sheriff escorted me into Medium B and asked the warder to take me. The warder refused. He pointed out there was no arrest warrant, no detention order, and he was not going to put me in there. I suspect my crisp white shirt was to blame for his reluctance -- clearly it wasn?t a white collar facility. It took an hour for someone to take me off the sheriff?s hands. I spent another hour in the admissions area, speaking to a few inmates here and there and to at least a dozen warders. Everyone said the same thing: you will be locked up with career criminals, murderers and rapists and gangsters. You will be attacked, stabbed, sodomised -- and you can try and fi ght, but when fi ve men come at you, in the night, in the yard, every day, you will give in or you will die. I heard more stories told by men concerned for my safety, and concerned because they don?t remember when last they had a contempt of court case there, and that Diepkloof with its gangs and disease would change my life in a bad way. I felt an inkling of nervousness. The warder comes back to me and says he feels he must book me in until someone tells him otherwise. I tell him he should do as he pleases, but that if he puts me here without the right permission, I will come back for him and sue him for everything he has. We look at each other over crossed arms. He says, ?You are going in. The court says so. I don?t want you here -- we haven?t had someone like you here for 13 years, and I can tell you -- you don?t belong here. When you step through that gate into the cells, you are going into hell, believe me. Someone should get you out before too long. Before the weekend. I can protect you, but not after lock up at night -- then it?s up to you and them.? The nervousness returns. I ask if I can make a call before handing over my cellphone. I call my girlfriend and tell her to be calm and listen carefully. I can hear she is crying, and I tell her to get a pen and write down everything I say. ?There is no warrant here for me, and it seems they need a section 69 to be completed to legally detain me. Also, the court order says I am to be detained and kept safely for 30 days. I am not safe. I will not be kept here safely. You must tell a lawyer.? I handed the phone to the warder, and felt a little more fear about what is about to happen. I went through the searching process, and was given an orange outfi t. Some notes on the outfi t -- they only have shoes up to size 10, so therefore no shoes for me. There are no socks. There are no jerseys. My pants have buttons, but no button holes, and they sit about 20cm above my ankles. My shirt is tight enough for a gay biker, but the material is rough denim and doesn?t stretch -- I look like I have been poured into it. It?s also mid-winter, it happens to be the coldest day this year, and the prison has a complete lack of sunlight -- it?s freezing cold and I look like an orange popsicle. Some of the men around me shiver from the cold, in an accepting way that says it?s how things are. I am renowned for not feeling the cold -- and I have goosebumps already and have started rubbing my limbs without realising it. Its what they call lion cold -- all main and head. The warder comes over to me and says my family are here -- my mother, my brother and some redhead who looks very sad. He says they are worried about me. ?Tell them I am fi ne, that I can handle this. I need some books to read.? ?I will try about the books -- but you are only allowed only some toiletries and fruit, maybe a newspaper.? He tells my family that I said I am fi ne and not to worry. He tells them he will get me a jersey and a blanket and soap and a toothbrush. He asks them to bring a skiftin (Tupperware) and toiletries. He doesn?t get me a jersey or blanket or anything, only says to me, ?Watch yourself in there. After lock up it?s crazy -- if something happens to you in the night, you must tell a warder -- don?t keep it to yourself, even if whoever did it promises to moer you if you tell.? ?What might happen to me?? I ask. ?Stabbed. Sodomised. Beaten. You know.? I feel unhappy about the prospects for the coming night -- but assure him I can handle myself. He warns me again to not make trouble, not be confrontational, to just be cool and go with things -- and possibly not to sleep. I thank him, and he ushers me into the holding cell which fi lls by the hour with more and more men who have been sentenced by the courts that morning. The men tell stories about prison -- most have been here before. Things like, don?t back down if someone takes you on -- you will be seen as weak, and be taken as a wife. Don?t trust anyone ? they all want something from you, so be careful if someone is nice to you. Wear plastic bags over your feet in the shower -- these guys like to shit in the shower -- its just easier. Ask your family to send cigarettes and phone cards -- you can use these to trade with -- a place to sleep, a blanket, protection. ?What do you mean, a place to sleep? Don?t we all get a bed?? They laugh at me, but not with joy, with a hollow sadness that speaks of lives gone wrong, of hopelessness and fear, of violence and shame and each day bringing more hatred for the society that put them there. On the fi rst night I am in a cell designed for 20 -- there are 56 of us. I have heard about overcrowding in prisons, but until you are in the cell you cannot truly know what overcrowding means. The cell is one of two that both look on to the yard. The yard is cement covered, surrounded by twenty foot walls that are defaced with graffi ti and plaster that has been etched away with a blunt object. The wall is so high that the only time it gets sunlight is between 11 and 1 pm ? during which time no one is there to enjoy it. You can see the sky above, and around the edges of the wall other parts of the prison block emerge in places. The cell is about 20m by fi ve metres, with a toilet area to one side. Inside the cell the inmates have moved the double bunks together in twos to form double beds -- this means that there is a fi ve metre fl oor space open on one end of the cell. There is a television set right at the top of the cell, touching the ceiling. It is encased in a steel cage, as is the wire that feeds it power. It is set to a low volume, permanently tuned to SABC1. It seems to come on automatically from 6am until about 7.30am, and again from 6pm to 10pm. There are two fl uorescent lights mounted to the ceiling -- the inmates have wired into them and get an electrical feed directly out of them for their own television sets or kettles. The prison no longer serves tea or coffee or hot drinks -- prisoners must acquire a kettle if a hot drink interests them. The toilet area consists of one toilet, a urinal, two shower heads and two basins. There is no toilet paper -- some of the long timers seem to have some, but we are told to ?wipe with your fi nger, and then wash your fi nger in the left hand basin?. The men shower from 2am on to about 5am -- apparently there is some hot water at 2am. The men are in the habit of dozing between 10pm and 2am -- not actually sleeping. After shower time they sleep until fi ve or six. The problem with institutional living is that everyone is fed at the same time, and is released into the cells at the same time -- so when you have 56 men needing to use the toilet, it can take hours before everyone has had a shot at it. Once the warder has locked us in, the drugs come out. Soon many are smoking dagga, mandrax, ?rocks? and tik. The smoke hangs heavily in the air, and the lack of ventilation means it goes nowhere. Mohammed, doing fi ve years for car theft, explains how the awaiting trial prisoners can get drugs at police stations and at the court cells -- they smuggle them into the prison in their anuses, and when they arrive there is much interest in who has brought what in. Drugs are used by most, and a newcomer with drugs can buy himself a bed, blanket, jersey or access to hot tea. Mohammed?s prisoner ID card says his sentence was R5 000 or fi ve years. He explains that he in fact sold the family car, without his wife?s permission ... and now he sits here. He has young children who he hasn?t seen in seven months while awaiting sentence. He misses them, and wonders if they will remember him when he gets out. He is a slight man with a kindly face, and is quite resigned to his fate. I wonder what kind of court puts a man into a prison like Diepkloof for that kind of crime? Surely it makes more sense to sentence him to community service? A man named King, who is there for stabbing his wife and her lover ?more times than he could count? says that he will only serve 16 months of his sentence -- he has successfully applied for early parole based on his alleged poor health. He is itching to get out, although only to wreak some kind of vengeance. He warns that the fi rst night in prison is the worst, it gets easier after that, each week a little more than the last. Logan is in for stealing a pair of takkies. He is in for 30 days, and I wonder if this can be good for him -- he has made friends with a gang member, and has been talking about some things he can do when his 30 days are served. Logan was a state witness in the trial of a Nigerian drug dealer who is currently doing time in Diepkloof -- the case was only six months back, and he fears that it is only a matter of time before the Nigerian discovers him and someone puts a knife in his back. The cell is icy cold, and 34 of us sleep on the fl oor. Three are in the bathroom, sleeping where the draft from the cell door blows across them all night. The rest of us are head to toe, so close together that we cannot lie on our backs -- there isn?t enough space. There are some blankets, but they are thin and small, and not enough to go around. My mouth is dry, I haven?t eaten all day, and because I don?t own a cup or bottle I can only access water in the toilet area. There are a group of men arguing loudly there, and I decide to wait until they go before getting some water. I realise I haven?t had water all day, and my mouth is parched. I drift into sleep, the men around me coughing and heaving, and I notice cockroaches and lice around us on the fl oor. Sometime during the night I feel a hand on my shoulder, shaking me. ?Wake up, the chief [warder] wants to see you.? I focus and see the man bent over me is one of the old timers, not one of the new group. I try and understand what he is saying, and he pulls my collar, attempting to drag me from where I am lying. That is when I look to the side and see the group of coloured men looking at me from the toilet area -- huddled in a group, watching intently. I realise that something is wrong, and grab hold of the man?s shirt in a quick upward thrust. He pulls back in surprise, but I hold him, and pull myself around, on to my knees. As I do this he loses his balance, and falls onto his back. I leap on top of him, immediately swinging my knee at his groin -- but I miss, and my knee connects with the concrete fl oor, sending me into a world of pain. A Zimbabwean man who was lying next to me has woken in the meantime, and he pins the attacker down by holding his shoulders to the fl oor. He looks at me and says, ?Ek hou hom vas.? I swing my fi st at the prone man?s face several times, hitting him hard on two occasions. Other men wake up, and I feel someone pull me back, saying, ?Calm down, Mlungu. Leave it, go to sleep.? I turn and see a familiar face, and the attacker, swearing at me, get up, brushes himself down and with venom says to me, ?You don?t have permission to fi ght-- you will see what happens tomorrow.? He spits at me and returns to his bed on the far side of the cell. I look up at the men in the toilet area and they are turned to each other, ignoring the scene in the cell. I squash back in between my sleeping partners and close my eyes, but don?t sleep. My heart races with adrenaline, and my knee throbs in pain. At 2am we are woken for shower time, but I don?t move. At 5am the rest of the men have arisen to polish the area where we slept. I fi nd a small piece of blanket and help. At 6.30am the cell is unlocked and we fi le out into the yard, told to line up in two?s and squat, hands on head for site|125 counting. We stay like that until 7, and then are led to the dining hall. Soon we discover that there are not enough plates, and only some of the new prisoners will eat. Which ones eat? The ones who had brought the drugs in the night before. The chef says we can come forward and he can dish into our hands -- but someone behind me mutters, ?Don?t -- if the pap is hot or runny and it spills on the fl oor they will beat you.? We watch the other men eat pap with milk, some on steel plates, others from skiftins. No talking is allowed, and after 10 minutes we return to the yard, again lined up in twos. After an hour we are led to the hospital for check- ups before they allocate us to our cells for the duration of our stay. Some tell me that once we get our fi nal cell it will be better -- there will be beds for us. I want to believe anything good, so that thought sits inside me like an unopened Christmas gift. We wait for two hours, and fi nally, in a cold corridor between two sections, a prisoner arrives with a heart monitor, a scale and a chair. He sets up his clinic right there. He says he will measure us, and write it on a slip -- then we must keep the slip for the nurse to see. He sets his equipment up, and we all take note of the readings on the heart monitor for each prisoner and comment on his health. He measures mine at 150 over 102, with a resting heart rate of 85. This is a lot higher than normal for me -- maybe I?m stressed? Then he measures my height and weight -- I am surprised to see that I have lost 4cm and 40kg. Some of the other prisoners show me their slips and say they are 10kg short of their normal weight. I consider asking the man to re-weigh me, but think better of it, as he would then have to do everyone again in a process that has already taken an hour for 30 men. The man then gives a short speech about our rights to access the hospital. He says, ?We have a lot of TB here, and Aids. You must let us know your status so we can help you. Many of you will catch TB here -- so if you have a cough that does not go away, you must come forward. Also, being stabbed compromises your immune system -- please tell us if you are stabbed -- especially if they blade breaks off into your body. You need to look after yourselves here -- it is much harder to survive if you are sick, and men die here every day.? After another hour we see the nurse -- we are instructed to strip so they can look at our tattoos. I discover that this is not done in appreciation of skin art, but to see what legacy is on your skin from previous prison life, or gang membership. I am amazed at many of the men?s gang related tattoos. The warder is making sure that known members are not allocated to cells where one gang becomes too strong. I tell the nurse that I have a cough, and she writes down on my chart: He says he coughs. I tell her that I weigh 98kg, not 58, and she says, ?Mmm, I already write 58 on your chart, don?t worry.? That is the extent of the medical exam. Nicodemus, a man in his early fi fties, has a blood pressure of 275 over 180. He too is pronounced fi t for sentence. We are led back to D section for lunch where the same problem awaits us: no skiftin, no lunch. No cup -- no water. Two of the prisoners, not much older than 18, complain to the warder and say they haven?t eaten in four days -- he beats both remorselessly, until, weeping, they get back into the line. It turns out that lunch is the last meal of the day, and this is why these boys were so stressed at facing another day without food. We are allocated to our cells and marched off to them. I fi nd myself outside F section. Brad, an inmate of D Section who tortured and killed an elderly couple nearly 10 years back, walks with me, talking to me all the time. He assures me he will get me a nice bed, that I shouldn?t worry about anything -- he will look after me. We assemble outside F Section, and the warder asks us not to engage in fi ghting or sodomy. It seems reasonable enough. Then Ishmael emerges, a life time prisoner in charge of F Section after lock-up. The prisoners and warders all seem to respect him. He gives a talk about his rules, and assures us that he will fi nd blankets and jerseys and skiftins for us -- maybe not immediately, but in good time. I noticed the boxes of Ayanda blankets on the walk up to F Section, so I ask about them. He says, ?You can?t just have a blanket. We have our rules here -- this speech is about rules, not blankets.? He fi nishes and asks me what I did to get in there. I tell him contempt of court, and he says, ?Someone pulled some strings to get you in here. Especially into F.? Then we enter the section, and Brad is suddenly at my side again, talking quietly to me, ?Look man, as you walk in, see how the world changes ... are you scared yet? Are you? You should be -- everything changes when you come in here. This section is fucked.? I walk in and there are men everywhere in the yard, in groups, looking at us walk in. They all stop talking and stare. The place feels dirty, and clothing hangs in strips from the cell windows, adding to the sense of disorder. We are paraded past the inmates to the far corner of the yard, then turn around to face them. They come up to us, poking a man in the chest, or going up to another and suggesting what they would like to do with him. It feels like we are pieces of meat on display ? the sense of violence around us is laced with a leering sexual energy, and Ishmael brings them to order. He separates us into two groups, and the inmates start fi ghting over who goes into which group. I realise that there are two cells, and the forward group will go into cell 21, and the others in 22. Twenty-two seems to have the more lecherous element, more unruly. I feel grateful that I am in cell 21. We line up outside the cell and now are counted with the other members of the cell -- 71 of us in a cell meant for 20. I wonder how we will all pack into there, never mind fi nd a place to sleep. We fi le in, and are the newcomers are ushered to the back. A man called Rasta calls us together and speaks in a mixture of Zulu and Afrikaans. I tell him I don?t understand, and he promises to repeat everything for me in Afrikaans. After 30 minutes he says to me, ?Wat is jou story?? I ask if wants to know why I am there, but he gets irritated, and another prisoner says, ?He wants to know what you will pay for you bed. He can throw someone out of a bed, and put you there. Drugs? Phonecard? Money? Smokes?? I tell him I have nothing, and he becomes more agitated with me. ?En jou mense? Kom hulle tomorrow? Wat bring hulle vir jou?? I tell him that I have no idea what they will bring -- I suspect they won?t bring a phone card or drugs or cigarettes. And you aren?t allowed money. He grunts and banishes me to Ishmaels bed -- ?Sit daar,? he orders me. I sit on Ishmael?s bed like a naughty schoolboy, and one by one some prisoners come and reason with me to promise him things. I tell them all I won?t promise anything. They seem concerned, and I tell them that if I promise something and then my family doesn?t bring it, will Rasta be happy? ?But they must bring these things, Mlungu. They must.? Ishmael arrives and ignores me, although I am sitting on his bed. He takes off his clothes and puts on pyjamas. They are a lovely chocolate colour. Beside his bed are pictures of children, but they are mostly obscured by other things: his roll of toilet paper, a loaf of bread. On the wall closest to him are pictures of naked women, all of them white. Ishmael?s cleaner kneels on the fl oor next to the bed, and is ordered to make tea. He unpacks the kettle and makes tea for Ishmael. Ishmael hands me a circular to read that is about a campaign to reduce the number of deaths in our prisons. Then he says to me, ?The Rasta is upset with you. He says you won?t cooperate, won?t give him anything for your bed. I am kicking my cleaner out of his bed for you, and he will sleep on the fl oor while you sleep in the bunk above me: warm and safe. I might even get you a sheet.? It is 3.30pm, and the wardens have locked us in for the night -- again, the drugs come out and the noise level rises as the prisoners take control of the cell. Ishmael tells me to hop up into the bed anyway, that he has promised someone he will look after me. ?You shouldn?t take these offers of a free bed, Mlungu. Tomorrow you will fi nd out what it really cost you.? I lie back on the bed, relaxing a little, and refl ect on my situation. The weekend is coming, with its promises of cold, hunger and violence. I used to think that criminals were the cause of violent crime in South Africa. Now I know that there is another party to blame: Correctional Services. They are facilitating that petty criminals are housed with violent criminals who will indoctrinate them into their ways. They place short termers with life timers -- men whose social and moral outlooks are determined by their sentences and whose infl uence over each other is negative in the extreme. There are not enough warders to properly manage the population: the result is violence, drug abuse and theft within the cells. There is insuffi cient food and men who don?t own a plate or cup risk not eating. The medical assessment is a joke: it serves no real purpose and cannot protect the population from new comers with viruses. There are no condoms, yet sex between the men, both consensual and rape is common. The overcrowding means that half of the population isn?t getting proper sleep, and the risk of spreading infection is high. These factors contribute to a climate of hostility. The warders practice violence on the inmates without recourse. These factors create an atmosphere in which men cannot become rehabilitated, and learn only bitterness, hatred and fear. The aim of many men when they get out is to go straight back to their lives -- yet now they respect life a whole lot less, and violence has become part of their repertoire. Fortunately, my family had the means and the knowledge to apply to the high court for my urgent release, which was granted -- I am certain that had I stayed the full 30 days I would have been harmed emotionally and physically at the very least. What is the fate of the average inmate there? If he survives his sentence intact, he re-enters society as a threat to us all. If we are serious about our safety in the future, we need urgent action from the Minister of Correctional Services: proper segregation of criminals according to their crimes, the right to eat, the right to a place to sleep and the right to safety and protection. Our population has trebled since they built these prisons -- should more prisons not be built to refl ect this? The minister says that the answer is not more prisons, but speaks of a vague and pretty plan involving educating inmates. Before she does this, she must look at the basic rights of all people, even if they are convicted criminals: you cannot teach a man new skills when the hierarchy of human needs is ignored. Prisoners are our responsibility because they will re-enter society at some point: if we think we have taught them a lesson in prison, it is a lesson that in the end will haunt us, not them. Laurence Cramer is a Johannesburg-based author. He is the author of Psychocandy and The Beacon, a fi lm about the assassination of Samora Machel that is scheduled to start shooting in March 2010. He is the editor of MethodPM, a specialist journal of the IT project management industry. site|127 ?To these ends, all appropriate means shall be used, including religious care in the countries where this is possible, education, vocational guidance and training, social casework, employment counselling, physical development and strengthening of moral character, in accordance with the individual needs of each prisoner, taking account of his (or her) social and criminal history, his (or her) physical and mental capacities and aptitudes, his (or her) personal temperament, the length of his (or her) sentence and his (or her) prospects after release.? (DCS 2005. The United Nations Standard Minimum Rules on the rehabilitation of people under correction) p r o g r a m m e 3 security for prisoners, offi cials and the public, to be ensured through a security risk assessment of each prisoner as part of his Correctional Sentence Plan, tight security controls, clear procedural regulations such as patrolling, searching and the interception of smuggling, and fair and just disciplinary procedures and corrective measures based on the principals of natural justice. care of the mental, spiritual, and physical well-being of prisoners through nutrition, health care, and psychological profi ling and treatment (where necessary), all as part of the offender-specifi c Correctional Sentence Plan. The ?care? of prisoners also makes provision for the maintenance and establishment of social links with their families and community. corrections of offending behaviour of prisoners, and specifi cally those related to the actually offence, as part of the profi ling of the Correctional Sentence Plan. ?Corrections? are intended to not only promote personal responsibility, but also to ensure the offender?s moral conscience in recognising the impact of the offence on the victim and society at large. development of basic education and skills competency of prisoners in line with human resource needs, and, as part of the Correctional Sentence Plan, the provision of ?suffi cient work of a useful nature? intended to ?enhance the employability of inmates once they are released? (DCS 2005:17). The objectives of such sustainable developments are not only aimed at tackling recidivism, but also at developing community awareness amongst offenders, engendering a spirit of community service, and thus de-stigmatising the system and its prisoners upon their release. reintegration for the successful reintegration of prisoners through appropriate interventions (including that of or after-care restorative justice) directed both at the inmate and the community. The Paper (2005:14) suggests that in preparation for release, ?the period of incarceration should be used to nurture and rebuild the relationships between the offender, the community, and society at large?. Moreover, it promotes the involvement of ex-prisoners in the process of rehabilitation and reintegration. facilities to ensure the provision and maintenance of physical infrastructure consistent with human dignity ? a balance between the concepts of ?deterrence and rehabilitation? (DCS 2005:16) through the preferred method of decentralised management units not dissimilar to those proposed by the new generation typology. the brief In 2005, the White Paper on Corrections in South Africa made a fundamental break from the ?past archaic penal system? (DCS 2005:5) in favour of the contemporary ideals of rehabilitation1. The Paper stresses the ?primary responsibility of the Department of Correctional Services to correct offending behaviour in a secure, safe and humane environment? (DCS 2005:13). Moreover, it emphasises the shared responsibility that both correctional centres and society have in ensuring good citizenship and in turn, reducing offending rates, recidivism and thus overcrowding in prisons (see Appendix 1 for Executive Summary). In order to deliver effectively on its core business and responsibility to society, the Department has adopted a needs-based approach to rehabilitation ? where ?causal factors? are balanced against unique offence profi ling. The approach identifi es six focus areas that concern the rehabilitation of the offender, the effective functioning of correctional centres, and key external relationships necessary for delivery of the Department?s mandate: | security | care | corrections | development | reintegration | facilities | To facilitate the execution of their new strategy, and in accordance with the six focus areas, the Department pledges to develop individual, offender-specifi c Correctional Sentence Plans (CSPs) that are to be based on the total needs of the specifi c prisoner ? from his admission until his release. 1 Although fi rst suggested in the 1994 White Paper on Corrections in South Africa, the 2005 Paper categorically states the Department?s commitment to the values of rehabilitation and restoration in the reintegration of post-prisoners.The Correctional Sentence Plan (CSP). prgrm|131 reintegration facilities care CSP profi ling and establishment psychological care spiritual care health care institutional induction, resettlement and general care offending behaviour programmes - alternatives to violence - dispute resolution - substance abuse - prevention (HIV/Aids, substance abuse etc.) education computer literacy life skills training restorative justice vocational training & industry in-house work exercise and sporting facilities extra-curricular activities basic amenities visitation centre admissions centre corrections development the programme The principles of new generation prison design makes distinction between the ?house? and the ?street? and as such, ?care? and ?corrections? will be assigned to the house, and ?development? and ?reintegration? to the street. care corrections development reintegration In response to the six focus areas outlined by the Department in its 2005 White Paper on Corrections, the programme for this project will be a direct manifestation of the ideals of rehabilitation, restoration and reintegration. As the contemporary principles of new generation prison design ? those which will be adopted (where applicable) in this project ? make a clear distinction between the ?house? and the ?street?, it seems most appropriate to make a similar classifi cation when rationalising the elements of this programme. As such, the services of ?care? and ?correction? ? considered private, introverted and primary ? will be assigned to the house; ?development? and ?reintegration? ? considered public (in its context), extroverted and consequent to the basic needs of care and corrections ? to the street; and ?facilities? throughout both the house and street. By its ubiquitous nature, ?security? will be intrinsic throughout the prison complex. Since the rehabilitation process is progressional in nature ? one where the prisoner would advance from phase to phase according to risk, capacity, trust, and commitment ? the arrangement of ?house? and ?street?, and their assigned programmes, is intended to be equally sequential, while at the same time, intersecting. Moreover, and as the primary programmatic concerns for this thesis are of rehabilitation and reintegration ? stitching the fi gurative (and literal) in-between space between the prison and the city, the criminal and conformist ? the developmental and reintegrative functions of the ?street? (development, reintegration and facilities) become most relevant, and thus inform the focus of this programme and project. Together with existing site functions and through an investigation of similar rehabilitative interventions - particularly, those implemented by NGO?s and private prisons, both locally and internationally - a detailed programme has been designed for this project (see overleaf). prgrm|133 < Prison Restaurant, Volterra Maximum Security Prison, Italy. c 2007 ?I?d like to think that when I get out of here, I can start a family and maybe get a job in a restaurant or hotel.? Santolo Matrone (24 year sentence for murder) The Volterra prison restaurant ? ?perhaps the most exclusive restaurant in Italy? and one where the ?chefs and waiters are Mafi osi, robbers and murderers? ? opened in 2007 and has since, been inundated with diners, both curious and hungry. Under the watchful eye of prison warders, a 20-strong team of chefs, kitchen hands and waiters prepare 120 covers for diners who, in advance, have all undergone strict security checks. ?Tables are booked-up weeks in advance? and due to its popularity, Italy?s prison department aims to achieve similar successes in other of its jails (Pisa 2007:1-3). programmatic relevance > provides vocational training in a sustainable trade > provides work experience and (positive) socialisation > stirs interest in a career, thus discouraging recidivism > creates meaningful interaction between criminal and conformist, thus alleviating the prejudice and stigma experienced upon reintegration - a viaduct between the prison and the city < Field of Dreams, Johannesburg. ?Soccer is the thing that will keep them together, help to build a team and keep them on solid ground.? Sylvester Ngobese (player from the winning ?USA? team) In June 2009, 200 offenders from eight prisons in Gauteng took part in their own Offenders Confederations Cup soccer tournament at Zonderwater prison. The tournament was precisely modelled on the FIFA Confederations Cup, giving it a ?realistic quality and authenticity.? Players, supporters, members, offenders, families and guests mixed freely.? The success of the tournament has in fact lead to discussions about the viability of holding an Offenders World Cup in May 2010, only this time featuring teams from all around the country. (www.multimedia.timeslave.co.za) programmatic relevance > provides much-needed stimulation and recreational activity > fosters a sense of compassion, self-worth and encourages (positive) socialisation and honest competition > stirs interest in a hobby or career, thus discouraging recidivism > creates meaningful interaction between criminal and conformist, thus alleviating the prejudice and stigma experienced upon reintegration - a viaduct between the prison and the city > Delancey Street Foundation, San Francisco. ?Enter with a history. Leave with a future.? (Delancey Street Foundation) The Delancey Street Foundation, which began in 1971, is ?the country?s leading residential self-help organisation? where the average resident has been a hard-core drug and alcohol abuser, has been in prison, is unskilled, functionally illiterate, and has a personal history of violence and generations of poverty.? Although the project supports the reintegration of post-prisoners and the like, it is an esteemed value-based model that stresses ?work ethic, mutual restitution, personal and social accountability and responsibility, decency, integrity and caring for others in a pro bono publico approach.? During their time at Delancey Street, residents receive a high school equivalency degree and are trained in no less than three marketable vocational skills. Moreover, and through its ?extended family? system, residents also become experienced in personal, interpersonal, practical and life skills. (www.delanceystreetfoundation.org) programmatic relevance > provides vocational training in sustainable trades > provides work experience and life skills training > stirs interest in a career, thus discouraging recidivism > encourages restitution and accountability - a viaduct between the prison and the city > The Garden Project, San Francisco. ?One of the most innovative and successful community-based crime prevention programs in the country.? United States Department of Agriculture The Garden Project, which began in 1992, is an intensive work programme where former offenders are skilled in horticultural and related educational and life skills programmes. Garden Project apprentices work to grow organic vegetables that feed seniors and families in San Francisco, and through some centres, offer nutrition and cooking classes. Although the project assists in the reintegration of post-prisoners, it is an ?integrated, community-wide, systemic response to crime, high rates of recidivism, and unemployment,? and as such has become ?an international model for community change.? (www.thegardenproject.org) programmatic relevance > provides vocational training in horticulture and cultivation > provides work experience and life skills training > fosters a sense of compassion, self-worth and environmental stewardship > encourages community service - an essential part of restoration - a viaduct between the prison and the city reintegration facilities education computer literacy life skills training basic education (ABET) tertiary education (FET) refresher courses library IT centre public conferencing community conferencing victim-offender mediation automotive workshop graphic & industrial design workshop textile & garment workshop facilities maintenance workshop horticulture & propagation workshop prison farm kitchen & culinary workshop prison restaurant (parolees) prison radio soccer academy sports fi elds & courts gymnasium spectator stands multi-purpose creative studio kiosks sports outfi tter barbershop stationer post offi ce cafeteria restorative justice vocational training & industries in-house work exercise and sporting facilities extra-curricular activities basic amenities visitation centre admissions centre PRISON public ex-prisoner 2nd hand book shop public conferencing community conferencing victim-offender mediation motor workshop & body shop print shop & gift shop clothing shop cafe general dealer garden shop delicatessen prison restaurant prison radio soccer academy spectator stands ex-prisoner apartments visitation centre soccer memorabilia shop kiosk formalised taxi stop CITY prgrm|137 prison farm & orchard horticulture & propogation workshop kitchen & culinary workshop prison kitchens restaurant Throughout the prison?s history, and especially in South Africa, food has been utilised as a weapon against prisoners. ?It was often withheld to weaken the resolve of rebellious prisoners? (?Paul? in Various Authors 2002:2) while at the same time, exploited as means of punishment and an agent for repression. Moreover, the prison has a renowned history of the provision of poor quality, insuffi cient and objectionable food rations. Today, food in prison is exploited as an instrument for hardened bartering, bribery and gang-related supremacy, and as a result, is an aggravator of appalling prison conditions and undue human suffering. Due to its sociable and potentially reintegrative nature, as well as its role as the provider of basic human sustenance, the theme of food has as such, become a defi ning element in the development of the programme for this project. PRISON CITY delicatessencafeteria garden shop library PRISON CITY automotive workshop design workshop print shop gift shop clothing shop soccer shop textile & garment workshop spectator stand sports fi elds sports outfi tter spectator stand motor workshop/ body shop showroom 2nd hand book shop The detailed programme for this project suggests several ?viaducts? which, while serving the primary role of rehabilitation, also attempt to reintegrate the prison (and its prisoners) with the city on varying levels: indirectly through the retail of workshop industry goods and services, and the exchange of books; semi- directly through viewing recreational activity and listening to the prison radio; and directly through restorative justice, visitation and the prison restaurant. prgrm|139 ?A new approach is needed in order to break down the silos of prison and probation and ensure a better focus on managing offenders.? (Patrick Carter in Alsop 2007:1. Managing Offenders, Reducing Crime) d e s i g n 4 concepts As underpinned in the historical and theoretical exploration of the prison as an outmoded means of ?correction?, this thesis is committed to challenging and interrogating its existing archetype through the design of a contemporary, rehabilitating viaduct, intended to shape the in-between space - the no-man?s-land - that exists between the prison and the city. Whilst serving as a pragmatic conduit for successful correction, the intervention will too attempt to traverse and suture the moat of indifference and prejudice that hinders the successful reintegration of prisoners that have duefully served their time. As outlined in the project programme, the focus of this thesis is on the developmental and reintegrative ?street?. But, through a series of initial and conceptual experiments, it became clear that without reconfi guring the existing panoptic ?house?, the new street viaduct would remain isolated and thus unsuccessful. As such, the revised design methodology included experiments in both reconceptualising the existing ?house? and conceptualising the new ?street? - ultimately developing the latter. While the foremost intention of the new prison viaduct is of rehabilitation and reintegration, it is simultaneously intended to solve the urban concerns of isolation, buffering and seclusion. The viaduct thus becomes an architectural solution for the prison?s social and urban condition. Conceptually, and through the programme of rehabilitation, this thesis attempts to suture the traditionally disparate, bipolar prison and city. << The new street viaduct takes shape along the street edge - an architectural gesture that attempts to solve both the social and urban concerns that plague the archaic prison island. design|143 Study for the Renovation of a Panopticon Prison, Arnhem, Netherlands. 1979-1981. OMA. An investigation into ?whether the 100-year-old building could... embody present-day insights into the treatment of prisoners? OMA in Sigler 1995:237 The Arnhem ?Koepel? Prison was built in 1882 and directly modelled on Bentham?s panopticon where centralised surveillance and solitary confi nement were its founding principles. ?One hundred years later, the Panopticon Principle, with its mechanistic ideal - naked power exercised by the authority in the centre over the subjects in the ring - has become intolerable... and reversed by cultural change? (Sigler 1995:237-9). As the panopticon was conceived as an embodiment of a single ?ideal? - one which was translated directly and unambiguously into architecture - the renovation thereof suggests (Sigler 1995:241) that its outmoded typology ?regain credibility by introducing the theme of revision as raison d??tre.? As such, ?modern prison architecture [should] consist of a prospective archaeology, constantly projecting new layers of ?civilisation? on old systems of supervision... [and is so doing], prevent a single new ideology from becoming paradigmatic and thus above verifi cation.? In this light, OMA?s renovation of the ?Koepel? involves: > dismantling the panopticon?s former centre; > adding facilities in a way that escapes the deterministic confi guration of the existing architecture; > creating spaces for collective use that end the limitations of solitary confi nement; > creating additional margins for future programs; and > identifying and exploiting the prison?s (unforeseen) potentials. In the proposal, ?old and new are uncoupled [by] two sunken streets [that] extend across the prison grounds? and provide a public realm of facilities for work, sports, culture and religion. The streets and their new collective facilities form a socle on which the dismantled panopticon stands as an historical relic. ?The centrifugal model of the streets literally undermines the centripetal model of the existing Koepel? (Sigler 1995:242), while their coincidence cancels the original ?eye? of the panopticon. design relevance > the inversion of the existing panopticon, both literally and fi guratively, in order to superimpose more contemporary ideals of ?correction? > the new sunken streets utilise vertical thresholds in order to achieve visibility and security between functions, while affording a more compact and effi cient method of allocating the requirements of the programme. In this instance, facades and activities are exposed to eliminate any sense of basement and windows tilted to avoid the suggestion of bars > the new public realm of the socle encourages democratic movement where prisoners no longer need to have specifi c destinations, but can rather choose among different facilities or even loiter > The proposed sunken streets are to occupy the previously powerful and centrifugal panoptic centre - once inhabited by the guard, but here by the prisoner himself. < While inverted by the addition of the cruciform sunken streets, the outmoded panopticon is annexed by wedges of new facilities, including a new entrance and visitation facility, as well as new communal spaces that intersect the rotunda?s incessant geometry. < Sketch illustrating the existing panoptic ?ware-house? inverted into the proposed ?new- house?. The house In response to the principles of the new generation prison typology, which defi nes the modern prison as a construct of the ?house? and the ?street?, a similar approach was adopted in order to accommodate the new rehabilitation ?viaduct? proposed for this project. As such, and subsequent to the defi nition of the programme, the house is to serve a number of functions including the residential accommodation of prisoners, their ?care? and ?corrections?, as well as general domestic functions such as kitchen, laundromat and in-house recreation facilities. Initial design experiments attempted to retain the existing confi guration of the house to which the new ?street? was to be annexed, and as such, challenge the outmoded panopticon as a ?prospective archeology, [upon which] new layers of ?civilisation? [could be projected] (Sigler 1995:241). But, its unrelenting panoptic geometry - centrifugally anchored to its core and thus impenetrable - disallowed its successful connection. As a result, the house was conceptually re-confi gured to resemble the contemporary new generation typology of decentralised, ?manageable units?, that while less effi cient than the panoptic and radial models, affords more positive interaction between both prisoners and staff, and in turn, promotes the holistic ideals of rehabilitation and reintegration. In response to both the principles of new generation prison design and the detailed programme established for this project, the house will be assigned the functions of ?care? and ?corrections?, as well as the inherent functions of residential accommodation and their associated facilities. care corrections design|149 ^ ^< In an attempt to annex a rehabilitation ?viaduct? onto the existing panoptic prison, initial design experiments involved splicing, extending and bridging onto its centrifuges. ^ < But the unrelenting geometry of the asterisk meant that these attempts were isolated and failed to address the ?house? as a whole. Rather, the solution seemed to lie in challenging the inherent geometry of the radial model and as such, experiments began in deconstructing, eliminating, reconfi guring and reconnecting. < Although the experiments began to challenge the panoptic geometry, they continued to fail at addressing the whole. The centrifugal typology - fi xed on and dominated by its core - could never be entirely rehabilitated unless a more radical modifi cation was to occur. As such, subsequent experiments targeted the panoptic ?heart? by intersecting it with either an overhead or subterranean ?viaduct? that could, through the core, link the centrifuges to the proposed rehabilitation annex. re-conceptualising the house ^ ^> While the overhead and subterranean experiments began to target the panoptic ?heart?, they too seemed to afford it undue reverence. As a result, and in a fi nal, more revolutionary attempt to challenge the inappropriate and outmoded radial model, experiments began at de-coring it - thus deactivating the centre and rendering it obsolete. ^ > Subsequent to de-coring the asterisk, the missing wing was be reinstated (although not necessarily as crudely), the wings spliced down their axial ducts, and fi nally, the wedge enclosed by a third side. In a similar vein to the decentralised principles of the new generation ?house?, the method was replicated all round, resulting in six independently-functioning and managed houses that could be individually designed for differing categories of prisoner according to threat, sentence length, and Correctional Sentence Plan. Each house would accommodate approximately 500 prisoners (although, in an ideal 100% populated scenario ,approximately 185). The archaic ?ware-house? is now converted into the ?new-house?. > Through its inversion, the geometry of the new house could then be abridged to the city by a rehabilitation ?viaduct? - the ?street? - connected to each house by a circumventing circulation passage. re-conceptualising the house design|151 Like the new generation model, each dayroom functions as a multi-use space for dining, studying and recreating. The dayroom also accommodates unit administration (unit manager, case worker and counsellor), local security, cleaners facilities and storage. < In attempting to re-confi gure the new house, the new generation concerns of ?manageable units? and disbanding the institutional corridor, were of primary concern. By bisecting the existing 70m long passage with a dayroom ?pod?, the cellblock is subdivided into two cell clusters, each comprised of two communal cells accommodating approximately 25 prisoners in each (although in an ideal 100% populated scenario, approximately 9). In an attempt to extend the size of the existing communal cells, a circulation passage is to be retrofi tted onto the inner perimeter of each wing. Moreover, each communal cell is be re-fi tted with suffi cient ablution facilities. As such, the new house becomes a collection of self-contained, manageable cell clusters arranged around their respective dayrooms. re-confi guring the house ^ > In a similar confi guration to the existing renovated cellblocks, the new third side of the house is a collection of cells arranged around dayrooms. In this case however, and in a more contemporary fashion, two dayrooms each give way to three groups of four double cells, accommodating a total of 50 prisoners. These cells are intended to house prisoners on a higher status due to low threat, sentence length, good behaviour and/or Correctional Sentence Plan. Moreover, and depending on the house category and security rating, this arrangement may also warrant split-level dayrooms to each service two levels of single cells. > The ground fl oor of the new house is to accommodate the functions of ?care? and ?corrections? - comprised of offi ces for administration and counselling, and larger communal spaces for corrective programmes. The ground fl oor will also host the house kitchen, laundromat, in-house recreational facilities, and a local security hub, all accessed and controlled via the vertical circulation in the dayroom ?pod?. Moreover, the ground fl oor will also give access to the rest of the house and the ?street? via a circulation passage that circumvents the deactivated core - now a proposed spiritual oasis to be accessed at various times by each house. re-confi guring the house design|153 The Creative Prison, HMP Paterson, Utopia. 2007. Will Alsop. ?A new approach is needed in order to break down the silos of prison and probation and ensure a better focus on managing offenders.? Patrick Carter in Alsop 2007:1 The Creative Prison project sets out an alternative (and radical) vision of what may constitute the prison of the future. ?In a twenty fi rst century society, we want and require for our prisons to do more than simply incarcerate its inmates and infl ict upon them a regime that cultivates distrust... If prisoners are to leave prison and not return, their time inside must be spent in activities that are conducive to good mental health as well as to learning and rehabilitation.? (Alsop 2007:4). As such, the scheme is envisaged as a ?super-enhanced? prison whose principles are rooted in education and training, a balance of rights and responsibilities, social integration through ?levels of community?, security through a balance of co-operation and compulsion, technology to assist staff in their responsibilities, and through effective design, the maintenance of good staff-inmate relations. The layout of the Creative Prison complex is characterised by a collection of multi-levelled houseblocks - each comprised of individual cells, a central ?association area?, a kitchen and dining area - and a series of learning and rehabilitation pavilions scattered around the site, and all circumvented by a free-form ?wall? of similar programmes. The wall - intended to both secure and reintegrate - is irregular in form, widening and narrowing where its programme requires and in some cases, opens outwards for the purposes of retail, visitation and delivery. design relevance > in addition to its innovative programmes, the scheme makes distinction between the ?house? and the ?street? and their urban signifi cance in the successful reintegration of prisoners > the prison complex is circumvented by the ?street? and all of its functions and as such, affords it a relationship with its context both for the purposes of rehabilitation and reintegration, and in an attempt to stitch the traditional buffer of the prison island > although radical, the Creative Prison encourages democratic movement around the complex, and through systems of trust, respect and commitment, gives its prisoners an opportunity to be holistically rehabilitated < Sketch illustrating a section of the new ?street? - an inhabited 3D wall and moat that serves the function of both rehabilitation and reintegration - the viaduct between the prison and the city. Pictured here: recreational facilities where the wall recedes to provide a screened (and secure) viewing deck for spectating. Similarly, the moat-level wall accommodates a spectator stand for prisoners. The street In response to the principles of the new generation prison typology, which defi nes the prison as a construct of the ?house? and the ?street?, a similar approach was adopted in order to accommodate the new rehabilitation ?viaduct? proposed for this project. As such, and subsequent to the defi nition of the programme, the ?street? is to primarily facilitate the functions of ?development? and ?reintegration?, as well as facilities for recreation, visitation and general prisoner amenity. Conceptually, the design for the ?street? challenges the traditional notion of the vertical wall resulting in a new 3D hybrid typology that is characterised by a sunken ?moat?, fl anked on one side by an inhabited wall - that which will replace the layered security buffers of the traditional prison perimeter - and on the other by an inner row of programmatic functions. Through a series of vertical (and horizontal) thresholds, the typology affords the functions of the viaduct a more immediate relationship with the city. Due to its rehabilitative programme and proximity to its context, the form of the new ?street? attempts to solve both the social and urban concerns inherent in the archaic prison island. development reintegration In response to both the principles of new generation prison design and the detailed programme established for this project, the ?street? will be assigned the functions of ?development? and ?reintegration?, as well as facilities for the purposes of recreation, visitation and general prisoner amenity. design|157 < < In order to conceptualise the ?street? and its new and immediate relationship with the fabric of the city, it seemed vital to challenge the traditional layering of perimeter security thresholds - those which, through their inherent no-man?s land, isolate the prison from its context. Design experiments began by rotating the traditional vertical ?wall? by 90?, resulting in a horizontal/vertical hybrid. This notion was then translated into a 3D architectural form. Together with the traditional notion of horizontal thresholds, the establishment of vertical thresholds affords the functioning of the prison a more immediate relationship with the city, and thus enables its reintegration - both for the purposes of its programme and for the benefi t of the disjointed urban fabric. < The new typology is characterised by a sunken ?moat? fl anked on one side by the new prison ?wall? and on the other, by the prison functions of the ?street?. On the upper level, the ?wall? is programmed by the ?street?s? public functions, while on the uppermost, by less public uses such as administration and ex- prisoner residences. The roofscape of the new inhabited ?wall? is proposed for the purposes of surveillance - although in an anti-panoptic response, only at the occurrence of mass gatherings and events where increased security may be required. conceptualising the street Through its section, the new ?street? affords a duality where, on differing levels, the prison and city interact, albeit at times, inadvertently. In an attempt to realise the programmatic functioning of the new hybrid ?street?, the ?viaducts? established in the detailed programme were considered and applied to its typology. ^ ^ > Where indirect viaducts, such as the retail of workshop industry goods and services, were applied, the street-facing outlet shop was connected to the ?street? only via its merchandise. In this case, the workshop is positioned on the inner fl ank of the ?street? and on the lower level of the moat. ^ > The semi-direct viaducts of viewing and listening afford the prison a more literal relationship with the city. In the instance of viewing, the wall recedes to provide a screened (and secure) viewing deck from where spectators can view sporting matches and general activity. The ?moat? level of the wall similarly accommodates a spectator stand, but this time for prisoners, The prison radio, while not open to either the prison or city, creates an intangible viaduct, which through discussion and thus de-stigmatisation, is intended to assist in the process of reintegration. Moreover, it is also a vehicle for vocational training and skills development in a sustainable trade. > Finally, in the instance of the direct viaducts - enabled by the restorative justice, restaurant and visitation programmes - the ?wall? opens to receive visitors and extends over the moat to accommodate its various functions. In this instance, the restaurant kitchen on the ?moat? level defi ning the street design|159 < < Initial zoning for the ?street? began with arranging its programmes of ?development? and ?reintegration? on the site - with varying and considered relationships to both the ?house? and the city fabric. As such, the educational functions of ?development? are positioned closest to the ?house? - where from the progressive process of rehabilitation will begin. The vocational training functions of ?reintegration? are to be located immediately on the (Main Road) street edge and opposite the existing functions of retail and commerce. Recreational facilities are to be positioned in-between the two - roughly in the place of the existing football pitch-sized yard. The new proposed main entrance is to be on the street edge in the position of the existing visitors reception. < In a similar vein, and in the hypothetical case of the ?street? being extended to the Female section to the north, education could too be placed closest to the house, vocational training closest to the street, and recreation to the north in the place of the existing but vacant, staff sporting grounds. zoning the masterplan ^ > In response to the broad zoning of the ?street?, massing of the programme began to be placed on the site in the no-man?s land buffer zone that isolates the prison from its context. Initially, the notion of ?street? was internalised and disconnected from the functions of the ?wall? - placed along the perimeter of the site. > > But, the developed masterplan indicates the ?street? attached to the wall functions gesturing both outwardly to the city and inwardly to create ?place? for the functions of the new prison viaduct. An early concept model shows the initial formation of the ?street? and ?wall? along the southern perimeter of Medium B. forming the masterplan design|161 UPPER GROUND FLOOR 1|500 < < As outlined in the development of the site zoning and masterplan, the functions of the ?street? (wall and moat) are positioned on the site within the traditional buffer zone. The functions of ?development? are placed closest to the ?house?, those of ?reintegration? closest to the street and its functions opposite, and recreational facilities in-between. The fi nal masterplan for the site reveals its programme arranged sequentially along the street edge - terminated at each end by an entrance/exit point and security hub. On the upper ground fl oor and on the corner of Main Road and Flora Street, the ?wall? recedes to create a public square lined by vocational trading - the offshoot retail of the training facilities in the moat below. The prison radio is located on the corner where visibility from passing traffi c is high and which, due to its geometry, internally creates a court off the moat. Alongside it, the forest - a physical green viaduct - pierces through the thickness of the wall and beyond. Alongside the main entrance to the prison and ?street?, the prison farm orchard provides an outdoor seating area for the restaurant and conferencing facility, before piercing through the wall and over the street into the forecourt of the residential development beyond - a physical green viaduct between the prison and the city. > As suggested in the detailed programme for the project, the process of rehabilitation is progressive in nature ? one where the prisoner would advance from phase to phase according to risk, capacity, trust, and commitment. As such, the programmatic arrangement of ?house? and ?street? is intended to be equally sequential from the phase of admission until the prisoner?s eventual release. For this purpose, the circumventing moat is intersected at fi ve points by control lobbies that would either permit or forbid the prisoner access to the following section of moat. the masterplan PRISON CITY admissio n a d m i s s i o n developme n t f a c ilit i e s reint e g rati o n p re-paro l e e x-p r i sone r p ubli c design|163 LOWER GROUND FLOOR 1|500 << The masterplan for the lower ground fl oor (moat level) indicates a similar zoning pattern to that of the upper ground fl oor. In this case, the moat terminates at each end - on the one side in an amphitheatre associated with the education facilities, and on the other, in a termination court outside of the restaurant kitchen. > The fi rst fl oor masterplan is characterised by general administration for the functions of the ground fl oors, and also by ex-prisoner housing that overlooks the public square. FIRST FLOOR 1|500 < The sketch model illustrates the urban nature of the new prison ?street? (and wall) which, while gesturing outwards towards the city, too holds the vast space and programme between it and the ?house?. security As far as possible, the principle of security in the new prison viaduct would be established on the basis of reciprocal trust between staff and prisoners. Although considered a fundamental element in ensuring a holistically secure prison environment, the system is by no means either sound or entirely realistic, and as such, is to be complemented by the pragmatic methods of containment and regulation. The principle of trust would be based on a merit system where enhanced status and privileges could be earned through commitment, performance and graduation from programmes. In the event of indiscipline, a prisoner may be subject to the withdrawal of his status and privileges and be demoted to the confi nes of his house. Moreover, and in the event of serious or collective indiscipline, the withdrawal of privileges may even redound to the house as an entirety creating a measure of group pressure on individuals to support the system. While counterbalancing the measures of trust and providing insurance for the pubic, the principles of containment and regulation would also ensure the prevention of escapes and outbreaks of violence within the prison. These would be enforced through: ? the interspersed control lobbies located along the internal prison ?street? that would, through both security guards and technology, either permit or forbid the prisoner access to the following section of moat (>). ? the use of CCTV throughout the prison ? from large communal areas in the ?street? to individual cells in the ?house? ? to be monitored by the local control lobbies, and overseen by the central security control room. ? the use of technology where all access doors throughout the prison would be controlled centrally and electronically. ? the new prison perimeter wall which, through its vertical thresholds, prevents escape (and entry). ? the use of a wristwatch-style ?tag? identifi cation system, that would both identify the location of the prisoner via GPS, and admit or forbid the prisoner access to sections of the building. While the ?tag? system is somewhat panoptic in its unremitting surveillance, it does allow a large amount of freedom in return (subject to supportive behaviour). design|167 ^ ^ The monolithic wall recedes to allow spectators to view sporting matches beyond. ^ On the corner of Main Road and Flora Street, the wall steps inwards to create a public square lined by the retail of workshop industry goods and services, and on the upper level, by ex-prisoner apartments. ^ ^ > The recreational functions of the ?street? are positioned in-between the programmes of ?development? and ?reintegration?. The prison radio is located on the corner where visibility from passing traffi c is high. Alongside it, the forest - a physical green viaduct - pierces through the thickness of the wall and beyond. > Alongside the main entrance, the prison farm orchard provides an outdoor seating area for the restaurant and conferencing facility, before piercing through the wall and over the street into the forecourt of the residential development beyond instigating another physical green viaduct. ?The wall is a line on the plan. It is a primordial, inevitable and necessary architectural element in our environment. Its omnipresence makes it easy to be ignored and taken for granted. The wall can be brutal too. History of mankind has demonstrated its ultimate role. Meaning of the wall could be: enclosure, division, separation, isolation, framing, protection, seclusion, display, provocation, support, connection, mystifi cation (of the other side), boundary, mediation. It separates this and that, here and there, us and them. It excludes the ?misfi ts?, the ?unsuitable?, the ?lunatics?, and the ?others?. While trying to induce meanings of the wall, we shall seek inversion of its power and give the meanings a twist. Ultimately we shall be able to arrive on ?the other side? and to be able to understand different sides. Architecture is, as Elia Zenghelis suggests, a medium through which to be critical. To understand the problem, horror, as well as beauty of the wall, is to begin to understand the power of architecture. Next time you draw a line, or design a wall, be conscious of your power.? (Shiuan-Wen Chu 2006. The Wall and its inversion) i n t e r v e n t i o n 5 >> Due to the scale and extents of this intervention, the design drawings and representations for the new prison viaduct will be illustrated in four sections - each annotated by a key. > As outlined in the detailed programme for this project, the specifi c users for each section - both prisoner and public - will accompany the section key. intvent|175 LOWER GROUND FLOOR PLAN 1|500 UPPER GROUND FLOOR PLAN 1|500OUND FLOOLOOU R PLAN 1|500N 1|R PL intvent|177 SECTION 1 1|100 intvent|179 FIRST FLOOR PLAN 1|500 intvent|181 SECOND FLOOR PLAN 1|500 intvent|183 Inside the prison restaurant, the concept of the viaduct is exemplifi ed as pre-parole prisoners wait tables occupied by the public. Architectural devices such as the perforated steel screen, replace the traditional prison bar and afford diners a view of the orchard and prison farm beyond. A view down the moat towards its termination court - fl anked on either side by the prison restaurant kitchen (right) and herb garden (left). The vertical thresholds of the new hybrid wall between prisoner and public are enforced through the use of architectural devices such as the steel screen (above) which separates the restaurant walkway and dining room from the zone of the moat. Here, the indirect viaduct of food production creates the connection between prison and city. intvent|185 intvent|187 LOWER GROUND FLOOR PLAN 1|500 UPPER GROUND FLOOR PLAN 1|500GRO NOUPUP G SECTION 2 1|200 intvent|191 FIRST FLOOR PLAN 1|500 SECTION 4 1|200 intvent|193 SECTION 3 1|200 A view of the continuous and monolithic concrete block wall from across Main Road that recedes to form the public square - lined with the workshop industry?s offshoot retail and ex-prisoner apartments (above). The taxi stop (right) and entrance precinct (left) anchor the public square with thoroughfare and activity. Here, the indirect viaduct of retail stitches the space between the prison and the city. intvent|195 intvent|197 UPPER GROUND FLOOR PLAN 1|500 intvent|199 SECTION 5 1|200 intvent|201 FIRST FLOOR PLAN 1|500 intvent|203 intvent|205 LOWER GROUND FLOOR PLAN 1|500R PGRLOWER ROUND FLOOFLO R PLAN 1| UPPER GROUND FLOOR PLAN 1|500PER ROUROUND FLOOR PLUND FLOOR POOR 50 intvent|207 model 1:500 intvent|209 STREET ELEVATION 1|200 intvent|213 intvent|215 intvent|217 intvent|219 intvent|221 A view of the entrance precinct from across Flora Street - marked by both the protruding orchard (beyond) and the security wing that overhangs the visitor entrance. Between the orchard and entrance, retail programmed specifi cally for the visitation of prisoners, punctures the snaking, monolithic concrete block wall. intvent|223 r e f e r e n c e s 6 appendix 1 refer|227 refer|229 refer|231 reference list Written Texts Alsop, W. (2007). The Creative Prison: Creative Thinking within the Prison Estate. 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