In the Prison Cell

Abstract

This chapter deals with prisoners’ experience of and in the prison cell. It argues that the cell is the crucial context for the foundation and maintenance of prisoners’ sense of self and personal integrity. The chapter starts with a description of the legal and institutional norms regarding the design, materiality and furnishing of the cell. It then explores the various meanings prisoners attribute to their cells, their individual experiences of being inside and their ways of arranging their cells and doing time in this place where they spend most of their time alone, depending on their mode of being with time—that is, their personal attitude towards their indeterminate confinement.

Leo::

This is my cell (we are standing in front of it; the prison officer who accompanies us during the walking interview is unlocking the door for us).

Irene::

You’ve been here [in this particular cell] for a while now, haven’t you?

L::

Yes, yes. I was first in the 5, wing 5. Then, during the renovation of wing 2, we had to move over [to another wing] for half a year. We were obliged to go there. But I prefer to be here [in wing 3] because it has fewer cells. Only seven, instead of 11 or 12 on a row, which is a relief.

I::

Is it therefore quieter?

L::

Yes. But of course, it depends on the people, on their personality, on how they are. But generally, it is quieter. There is just more air, because you have a certain distance from cell to cell, while the others [in the other wing] are quite close to one another. And yes, I find it comfortable here especially because of the view [from the window].

I::

And when you say there is more air, do you also notice that while you are inside [the cell]?

L::

Yes, of course it [the cell] is bigger. […] this is what suits me, and also the people here are more on their own. There are also many Verwahrte [prisoners sentenced to indefinite incarceration] here, or long-term prisoners. I have somehow settled down here. And yes, so this is my cell (he steps in).

I::

May I come in?

L::

Yeah, sure, now you’re allowed (laughs) (I’m entering the cell). Yeah, so that’s just … my little empire. (Leo, 31.8.2017)

As this quotation suggests, the experience of being and living in a prison cell is shaped by a wide range of elements: the size of the wing and the prisoners who live next door are just as important as the particular view one may have from the cell window. Before entering the prison cell, I propose we remain on the doorstep and have a brief look at the literature on this subject.

In general, prison scholars describe this particular place as ambiguous. On the one hand, they agree that the cell is probably the only place in the prison where prisoners can spend unobserved time and therefore experience (at least some degree of) privacy and relief from prison pressure (Cohen & Taylor, 1972; Toch, 1996 [1977]; Ugelvik, 2014). In contrast to other prison (common) spaces, such as the courtyard or the workplace, the cell is the place where prisoners usually sleep, get dressed, care for their personal hygiene, eat, watch TV, read and study, think and dream. Given these activities, the cell can be considered a ‘private’ and ‘intimate sphere’ (see also Ugelvik, 2014, p. 121). On the other hand, the cell is seen as not really ‘their space’ either, because ‘nothing is theirs here [in the prison]’ (Wacquant 2002, p. 378). The cell remains a domain that is highly controlled by the prison system (see also Foucault, 1975). For example, prison staff members can enter at any moment and without announcement, the cell is regularly searched, and prisoners may be transferred to another cell or prison at any time (see also Ugelvik, 2014, p. 118) This ambiguity is also experienced by the prisoners with whom I spoke. Jonathan summarized it spontaneously: ‘The cell for me, it’s an order. I must be there, regardless of whether I want to or not. But in the meantime, this is the place where I feel comfortable, where I can rest and find peace and quiet’ (Jonathan, 2.5.2016).

A first look inside suggests that the prison cell is a very small and narrow place. In Switzerland, the size of a cell is generally 12m²; possibilities for movement and activity are therefore very limited. If the prisoners are held in single cells (which is the case in JVA Lenzburg and JVA Pöschwies), when the doors are locked they have no opportunity for (direct) interpersonal communication. The cell is a place where they are forced to ‘do time’ alone, with themselves. Finally, according to the spatio-temporal regime of the prison, it is the place where they have to spend most of their time. Within the framework of the prison’s daily structure, divided into work, leisure and resting time, the cell is the place where prisoners are supposed to rest.¹ However, as already indicated, the activities and actions carried out by the prisoners while locked in their cells obviously go beyond resting in a literal sense, meaning ‘to relax, to sleep, or recover strength’ (Oxford Dictionaries, 2018b). For instance, while some prisoners use the official resting time for (personal) work, others try to distract themselves as much as possible during this particular part of the day because they are suffering from being locked up. Either way, their time in the cell grants these prisoners a general break from their obligations concerning the activities and periods that take place in the prison’s common rooms, namely work and leisure time.

The aim of this chapter is to take a closer look at prisoners’ ambivalent attitudes towards the cell by ‘entering’ the prison cell with an ethnographic lens. As emphasized by Ugelvik, ‘a cell is not necessarily a cell’, because ‘a room is never just a room’ (2014, p. 116). In this sense, I aim to explore more deeply the meanings prisoners attribute to their cells, their individual experiences of being inside and their ways of doing time there.

As a first step into the prisoners’ ‘little empire’, this chapter begins with a description of the legal and institutional norms regarding the design, materiality and furnishing of the cell in order to provide an initial impression of the cell from an outsider’s perspective. This is followed by a description of the prisoners’ perception of how it feels to be in a prison cell, based on the concept of ‘ambiance’ (Adey et al., 2013). As I will show in this section, the ambiance of the prison cell is not only a result of its materiality, but also of the prison (social) environment (inside) and its surroundings (outside). This is also expressed by Leo in the quote above, who is happy now that he is in a wing with fewer cells and a better view. In the subsequent section, I present the prison regime for the furnishing and maintenance of the cell, consisting of rules and regulations that are translated into practice by prison staff. I then provide insight into the prisoners’ approaches to dealing with this particular place by looking more closely at their everyday practices, namely how they make use of spatial elements to create intimate and private spaces. The last section is dedicated to the prisoners’ temporal experience and ways of dealing with time while being locked up alone in this very small place.

4.1 The Swiss Prison Cell

At the national level, no explicit rules exist regarding the material conditions of the prison cell in Switzerland (Baechtold et al., 2016, p. 159). However, the general guidelines for the execution of sentences and measures (Art. 74 and Art. 75 of the SCC) apply to the design and furnishing of the cell. On a cantonal level, again no common standards exist; they are mainly defined at the level of the individual institution. However, several cantonal guidelines suggest single cell occupancy as the norm. Since the revision of the SCC in 2007, the so-called ‘principle of normalisation’ has served as the point of reference for questions concerning the materiality of the cell. Thus, the material conditions of the cell must correspond to ‘average living conditions’ (durchschnittliche Lebensgewohnheiten). Based on this, there are minimal requirements regarding lighting, ventilation, sanitary facilities, furnishings and the size of the cell (Baechtold et al., 2016, pp. 159–160). In addition to the rather vague jurisprudence at the national level, the Federal Office of Justice has formulated explicit standards that come into force when authorities must decide on the subsidies to be allotted to new penal institutions (Bundesamt für Justiz BJ, 2016). For example, 12m² has been determined as the minimum size required for a single cell (Baechtold et al., 2016, p. 160). In terms of lighting, heating and sanitary facilities, the norms should correspond to the rules concerning general housing construction in Switzerland. The cells should receive enough daylight so that the prisoner is able to read without artificial lighting during the day. Also, every cell must have access to running water—not necessarily warm water—and be naturally ventilated, heated to normal room temperature and equipped with a flush toilet. Every cell must be furnished with a bed, a chair, a table or desk, and a wardrobe or rack. Finally, the addition of personal objects, namely wall decorations, should be ‘generously permitted’ (Baechtold et al., 2016, p. 160).

In the Strafanstalt of JVA Lenzburg, the size of (the majority of) the cells, 7.86 m², does not meet today’s standards, and they have recently been renovated in order to improve their condition (Lüthi, 2013). The windows were enlarged to augment the view and air circulation, and they now have access to hot water. However, the renovation also responded to security concerns. As the director of the prison explained, the ancient wooden windows could potentially have been unscrewed in order to hide something. Moreover, the floors, partially made of wood, tiles and linoleum, were worn-down and again potential hiding places for all kinds of objects. According to prison management, this is no longer possible with the resistant polyurethane coverings. Finally, the toilets are no longer installed in wooden cabinets, which also used to offer hiding places. In terms of furniture, the cells are equipped with a bed, a toilet, a cupboard with a sink, a table and chair, and a cupboard for storing clothes. The furniture is bolted in place (see Fig. 4.1).

Fig. 4.1

(Source Photo by Andreas Moser)

An empty prison cell

In the 60plus unit for ill and elderly prisoners at JVA Lenzburg, the size of the cells is 12.5 m². The basic material of the outside walls as well as the inner walls and floors is concrete. The furniture, including a bed, a table and a chair, a pin board, a cupboard, a toilet and a sink, is mostly fixed. While the architecture of the 60plus unit is the same as for the units for prisoners on remand, some of the walls in this wing and the cells have been painted yellow, according to a member of the prison management, in order ‘to improve the atmosphere’ (fieldnotes, 14.3.2013).

The furniture in the cells in the AGE unit at JVA Pöschwies is basically the same as that at JVA Lenzburg. However, it is not fixed and is thus movable. The floors are made of wood.

4.2 Descriptions of the cell’s Ambiance

Studies in the field of human geography argue that architectural space affects people, in that ‘it can refine human feeling and perception […] define […] sensations and render them vivid’ (Tuan, 2001 [1977], p. 102). Architectural spaces produce a particular ‘ambiance’. The concept of ambiance emphasizes the affective and emotional resonances of spaces and the potential of an environment’s ‘material and sensory qualities’ (Adey et al., 2013, p. 302) to touch human beings. However, ‘it is not the ambiance that is perceived per se, but rather that it renders perception possible’ (Thibaud, 2011, p. 213). In a nutshell, ambiance is ‘a space–time qualified from a sensory perspective’ (Thibaud, 2011, p. 203). It thus plays ‘a major role in giving meaning to spaces in order to transform them into places’ (Jones & Jam, 2016, p. 319). As emphasized by Thibaud (2002), ambiance does not exist without the presence of individuals. It is thus both ‘what can be perceived and what can be produced’ (2002, p. 185). It refers to ‘the sorts of physical and moral surroundings of a person or as an “environmental quality”, placing ambiance at the interface of the material and sensory qualities of the environment and individual and inter-subjective perception’ (Adey et al., 2013, p. 302). Moreover, the prisoners’ descriptions of their cell’s ambiance are shaped by their ‘perceptual filters’ (Kusenbach, 2003), such as emotions, values and previous experiences, as well as their individual practices.

In the following, I provide insights into prisoners’ sensory perception of their cells as expressed in their descriptions of the ambiance within—how it feels to be in them from the residents’ point of view. As I show, the cell’s ambiance is described with reference not only to the cell’s materiality, but also to the prison environment (inside) as well as its surroundings (outside).

4.2.1 Architecture, Design and Furnishings

As mentioned above, in the Strafanstalt of JVA Lenzburg, the cells have recently been renovated. Almost all the prisoners agree that the renovation generally led to an ‘improvement’ of their material conditions. They described the renovated cells as ‘modern, clean, bright, and easier to clean’ (Fieldnotes). However, they did not agree on the degree of ‘cosiness’. Some preferred the cells in their previous condition because of the greater number of wooden elements. These prisoners described the new ones—at least in their uninhabited state—as ‘cold and dull’ (Leo, 23.3.2016). Some prisoners also mentioned the enlargement of the window. They perceive this element as clearly increasing the level of cosiness, because ‘it provides more daylight’ (Hugo, 23.3.2016).

However, fastening the furniture in place (which, in the Strafanstalt, occurred with the renovation) has proven to be the most important issue, because it restricts the possibility of arranging the items according to personal needs.

Everything is fixed now. Previously you could arrange the table, here the desk, over there the computer … you could really arrange it a bit like a home, your own … room or one-room apartment or whatever. And now everything is set in concrete and fixed. (Leo, 23.3.2016)

Fixing the furniture in place not only restricts further rearrangement. As mentioned by Tuan, 2001 [1977], p. 102), architectural space ‘clarifies social roles and relations’; it provides people with an orientation regarding their status and behaviour. For instance, in the case of the prison cell, the bars in front of the windows remind the residents day after day that they are prisoners. Interestingly, however, the bars are something that most of the prisoners tend to ignore (see also Sect. 1.2.3). In contrast, they declared that the fixed furniture was a clear sign of heteronomy and a failure to recognize their status as prisoners who have already served their sentences and who are now preventively held in prison. Many prisoners associate this fixed arrangement of the cell with conditions that are common in pre-trial detention facilities, where security is privileged above all else in order to prevent vandalism and suicide (Bundesamt für Justiz BJ, 2016).

It’s like in pre-trial detention [Untersuchungshaft]: everything is fixed, everything on a concrete wall. You can’t actually move anything. Before [in another prison], I could put the table across the cell, or put it in front of the bed. I could arrange the cell a little bit the way I wanted it. It’s the same with the TV. Now I’m forced to have the TV behind me; I can’t put it on the table, the way I want it. These are things that really annoy me a lot. Me as a Verwahrter [prisoner serving indefinite incarceration]! If I had only three, four years, a regular sentence, then I would say: ok. But as a Verwahrter, I don’t see why I have to live like that. I don’t see it! (Paul, 29.3.2016)

From Hugo’s point of view, the fastening of the furniture fulfils one particular purpose above all: ‘to make it easier for staff to search the cells’ (Hugo, 23.3.2016). Similar to Paul, he wishes the cell were ‘less prison-like’:

Yes, I already told the director, for people who have been in here for 10, 15 or 20 years now or who won’t get out anymore, the room should be a bit bigger, and you should be able to arrange it in a way that you can feel at home or feel well. That there is a good atmosphere [in the cell]. Now it is just, just cell-like or prison-like and so on. This may be ok for people who will be released, but for people who are held in indefinite incarceration and have no chance at all [to ever be released], it’s quite difficult. (Hugo, 23.3.2016)

This echoes Ugelvik’s (2014, p. 118) argument that all the rules and limits regarding personalization of the cell are an expression of institutional power: ‘the cell is a room that tells the prisoner who lives in it that “you are all the same to us”’.

Prisoners in the 60plus unit described the fixed furniture principally in terms of health issues. Some said that they would like to adjust the level of the bed, which is considered to be ‘too low’ (François, 23.11.2013), as well as the height of the table, which—together with the chair, which is ‘not a normal office chair’ (David, 11.6.2013)—may cause back pain when sitting for long periods of time. Moreover, the concrete floor in the unit was described as ‘uncomfortable’ (David, 11.6.2013) for bare feet, and the windows as ‘too small’ and not providing enough daylight (Herbert, 5.6.2013). In addition, they pointed to the dominance of the colour grey in the cell (the floor, the walls), which, as one prisoner said, ‘makes you sick’ (David, 11.6.2013). According to David, the architecture and design of the prison cell is not ‘species-appropriate’ (David, 11.6.2013). In the AGE at JVA Pöschwies, the materiality of the cell was mentioned less frequently. However, the fact that the furniture is movable was often discussed, and prisoners explicitly emphasized that they make use of the (restricted) ability to move it and arrange the cell according to their wishes (see Sect. 1.4).

The prisoners’ narratives regarding the materiality of the cell emphasize their desire for a personalized space in order to feel less like a prisoner and more like a ‘normal’ human being living in this particular place. As I show in the following section, in addition to the materiality and design of the cell, the wider (social) prison environment produced by both staff and prisoners also contributes to the ambiance of the cell.

4.2.2 Prison Environment

The relationship between staff and prisoners is ‘at the heart of any prison’ (Crewe, 2011b, p. 455). The prison staff’s methods of exerting power and authority, their use of discretion and their approach towards care greatly influence the general climate of the prison (Bennett et al., 2008; Isenhardt et al., 2014; Liebling, 2000). To put it in the words of a prisoner, prison staff can put more or less ‘pressure’ on them (Marco, 4.5.2016). More concretely, the degree of pressure depends on the way officers treat prisoners: whether they ‘see more than a prisoner’ and ‘the human side’ (Herbert, 5.6.2013) of the person and express respect and maybe even helpfulness during their everyday interactions with prisoners, or whether they use ‘every opportunity to harass and mentally destroy’ them (Kurt, 3.5.2016).

These different staff attitudes reveal themselves, for example, when locking and unlocking a prisoner’s cell—a routine that prison staff perform with different rhythmic variations and dynamics. Some officers knock before they open the door; others open it without warning. Some officers close the door carefully; others slam it. With these different attitudes, staff members grant prisoners more or less privacy (see also Sect. 4.2.2). Some officers behave in a way that gives prisoners the feeling that ‘all they are interested in is to simply lock [prisoners] up and let [them] rot’ (Hugo, 25.6.2013), while others use these moments of the day to have a chat, maybe make a joke or ask the prisoner how he is doing that day. Paul mentioned that making jokes with staff members in particular helps him to temporarily ‘break out’ of the strict daily routine (Paul, 29.3.2016). Thus, the locking and unlocking of the prison cell is a sensitive moment during which, depending on the officer’s attitude and behaviour, prisoners may feel more or less respected as human beings.

The ambiance of the cell is further produced by the prison’s sounds (see also Herrity, 2020). Even though the cell doors are made of steel, prisoners told me that they can still hear what goes on outside them. In the literature, the prison is generally described as a ‘very noisy’ place (Rice, 2016). Typical prison sounds include the ‘banging’ of cell doors when being shut; the ‘rattle’ of keys carried by staff members; their way of addressing prisoners in loud, ‘gruff’ and ‘authoritative’ voices; and sudden events, such as fights between prisoners or prisoners who become ‘hysterical’ and start screaming while in their cells (Rice, 2016, pp. 5–6). The elderly long-term prisoners I spoke to mentioned that they are generally sensitive to (prison) sounds and often experience them as ‘noise’. They point to fellow prisoners who ‘shout’, especially during the day when the cells are open, or listen to ‘too loud’ music as a source of stress. Some prisoners stated that they had asked for a transfer to a wing that is supposed to be quieter (which, in the Strafanstalt, is the wing with mostly long-term prisoners) or to the unit for elderly and ill prisoners. These prisoners also appreciate the sound of silence that occurs immediately after the nightly lock-up. However, they still may live next to a ‘noisy neighbour’ or close to a main door that makes noise whenever it is used by a staff member.

While in the cell, one sound that makes inmates feel particularly uncomfortable is that of an approaching officer. One prisoner told me that whenever he is in his cell and hears footsteps on the wooden floor that seem to be getting closer, along with the sound of keys, he immediately feels tense because he always thinks: ‘Now they are coming to my cell’ (Fieldnotes, 24.2.2016)—even if there is no obvious reason for it. Because staff members are allowed to open the cell door and enter at any moment of the day, these particular sounds can strengthen the prisoners’ perception that, in prison, ‘one can never really relax’ (Fieldnotes, 24.2.2016). As this same prisoner noted, the sound of an approaching prison or security officer always makes him feel ‘interrupted’. Nonetheless, prison staff rarely enter a prisoner’s cell after 8 pm, lock-up time. Most prisoners indicated that from that moment onwards, they can experience privacy and relief from prison pressure.

In the prison literature, quietude is generally described as a source of relief (Rice, 2016, p. 11). However, the lack of sound—silence—can also be a source of stress. As mentioned above, the units for elderly and ill prisoners are generally (not least because of the limited number of prisoners) described as ‘quieter’ than normal wings or units. While some perceive this as a welcome relief, for Marco this ‘intense quietness’ in the unit feels ‘unnatural’ because it does not correspond to the sounds of ‘normal life’ (Marco, 4.5.2016). Indeed, this particular ambiance makes him feel isolated. Jonathan said in this regard: ‘It’s like deserted, everyone closes his door, even when it is [unlocked]’ (Jonathan, 24.9.2013). The predominance of silence that characterizes the ambiance in the cell after the nightly lock-up intensifies the experience of isolation and loneliness.² Many prisoners mentioned that after lock-up, they usually immediately switch on the radio or TV because they ‘can’t stand complete silence’ (Markus, 28.9.2017). ‘Whenever I enter the cell, I immediately switch on the TV. Not because I always watch it, but that there is a sound. Loneliness is thus less present’ (Darko, 6.5.2016). By switching on the TV to make sound, prisoners drown out the loneliness produced by the lack of human presence and communication and thus create a lively ambiance:

The TV sometimes also just runs in the background, so that I don’t feel alone […] especially when I write difficult letters I’m glad if it is on, especially when the door is locked. During the day [when the door is open], I often switch it off. Then I can concentrate better, because I know I’m not locked up, [I am] still in prison, but at least not confined in this narrow space [of the cell]. (Rolf, 6.5.2016)

As shown in this section, the ambiance of the prison cell and thus the feeling of being in it is not only created by the materiality of the cell, the size of the window or the movability of the furniture, but also by the prison environment, the way the prison staff treat the prisoners during the locking and unlocking of their cells, and the prison’s sounds—its noise as well as its silence. I argue that there is at least a third element: the prison’s surroundings. While locked in their cells, prisoners are—at least physically—the most isolated from the outside world. However, each cell also has a window through which prisoners can get a glimpse of the outside world. How prisoners perceive and deal with this potential connection is also important.

4.2.3 Prison Surroundings

Scholars agree that ‘total institutions’ are in general more permeable than as outlined by Goffman (1961). The idea of the ‘totality’ of prisons has been challenged by various scholars, who have pointed, for example, to prisoners’ importation of gang patterns into the prison (Jacobs, 1977) and the penetration of the outside world through the media (Jewkes, 2002) or external visitors (Moran, 2013). Nonetheless, with the exception of a few studies in the field of carceral geography that challenge the idea of a distinct separation between the inside and outside of the prison (see e.g. Baer & Ravneberg, 2008; Turner, 2016), these studies remain focused on the inner world of the prison, on what happens behind the walls. In this section, I propose shifting the focus from the interior spaces to the exterior spaces of the prison, specifically to the prison surroundings. My aim is to trace the role of the prison surroundings by looking more closely at the prisoners’ sensory perception of ‘what goes on’ beyond ‘its high walls’ (Coyle, 2005, p. xi) and how this affects their experience of imprisonment.

While the cells in a prison are generally all alike, the location and orientation of the cell window provide prisoners with different views and therefore potentially different sensory impressions and connections to the outside world. This strongly shapes the perceived ‘ambiance’ (Thibaud, 2011) in the cell and thus how it feels to be in the cell as well as the experience of imprisonment in general (see also Turner et al., 2020). For instance, some prisoners told me that they could hear dogs barking or people laughing; others mentioned that they could hear birds chirping—or even have direct contact with them by feeding them—while in the cell. The location of the cell also influences whether the sun shines in at the time they are locked inside. A cell on the second floor may allow prisoners to look over the wall and obtain a glimpse of the ‘free world’ and maybe—depending on the surroundings of the prison—see a forest, a village, cars or even people. For example, Leo has recently moved to a cell on the second floor. This allows him to see ‘more than the wall’ and, as he said, ‘to gaze into the distance’ (Leo, 23.3.2016) (see Fig. 4.2). He can now see cars moving and sometimes people walking on the street. Of course, these views change with the seasons. As he told me, he sees ‘a bit more of life out there’ during winter, after the trees have lost their leaves (Leo, 6.9.2017). However, he has difficulty imagining ‘that this is reality’; for him, looking out the window feels ‘as if [he is] watching TV’ (Leo, 23.3.2016).

Fig. 4.2

(Source Photo by a prisoner)

A glance of the ‘free world’ through the cell’s window

Despite the difficulties in feeling that what they can see from the window is ‘reality’, some prisoners described the ability to peek at the outside world through the window of their cells as essential for their well-being. For some this means having the opportunity to see the blue sky or the green trees, to smell and feel the ‘fresh air’ (Leo, 23.3.2016); for others it means getting a glimpse of houses and cars—to see that ‘normal life’ (Leo, 6.9.2017) goes on. All of them mentioned that being able to gain sensory impressions of the outside world provides them with hope, makes them feel less isolated and (still) connected to the outside world (see also Jewkes, 2018; Moran, 2019).

If I were inside a cell where I couldn’t see green when I look out of the window, no sky and nothing, I would go crazy because I need that. This is what gives me back some energy and makes me keep going. (Hugo, 25.6.2013)

[I]t’s important for me to have this view, I can see a bit of green, the forest, I don’t just see the wall, well I’m now up [on the second floor], this gives you still a little feeling of freedom, and this is what matters to me […] I’m often standing at the window, looking out into the forest, and simply enjoying it. It also calms me down. […] This is important to me, to not be completely segregated, that I can still see the horizon. (Leo, 6.9.2017)

However, in contrast to prisoners who appreciate having a view, I also met prisoners who do not like to be confronted with the outside world, because they are constantly reminded of what they are missing (see also Jewkes, 2002, p. 91). Markus, a prisoner who wants to concentrate on the (prison) present instead of the (uncertain) future, told me that he avoids looking out his window, through which he can see a small town. As he explained to me while we were standing in his cell together, the outside world is just ‘too close’ (illustrated in Fig. 4.3):

This is something I will not get used to: the view. I’m definitely not one of those … there are many [prisoners] who are standing at the window in the evening, looking out while smoking a cigarette. Me, I don’t do that. //Why?// I see houses and life //Yeah, they are very close actually// Yes. This is outside just next to the wall. I don’t like that. It’s nice to see, but it’s depressing. For example, the house there with the two windows above [he is pointing a finger at it], //yes//, this is so close! (Markus, 28.8.2017)

Fig. 4.3

(Source Photo by Irene Marti)

Feeling ‘too close’ to the outside community

Prison officers told me of one prisoner who used to stay in a cell that provided him with a view of the prison’s open-air visiting area where certain prisoners can receive external visitors. After a while, he asked to move to another cell because, due to his paedophilic disposition, he could not bear to hear the voices of children.

As these examples suggest, sensing the outside world through the window of the cell constitutes a source of both well-being and discomfort. Having a sense of the outside world—which means for prisoners the possibility to gaze into the distance, see the open sky and the horizon, and be reminded visually and through sounds that ‘normal life’ goes on—thus does not increase prisoners’ well-being per se, as is often assumed (see also Turner et al., 2020). It can intensify as well as ease the pain caused by their social exclusion and spatial separation from the community.

Furthermore, the embodied experience of the prison cell as a particular space is inseparably bound up with the embodied experience of time (see Moran, 2012, p. 310). Everyday life in prison is characterized by its many rules, repetition and a high degree of ‘eventlessness’ (Toch, 1996 [1977], p. 29). Having access to the daily rhythms and routines of the outside community (e.g. in the shape of moving cars and people walking on the street) or the seasons, for instance in the form of a ‘forest that changes its colours’ (David, 18.10.2017), gives prisoners—especially those who have no concrete perspective and thus do not know if they will ever be released—a sense of the passage of time (see also Turner et al., 2020, p. 226). Moreover, as mentioned above, seeing the ‘horizon’ provides some prisoners with ‘energy’ and ‘hope’, which echoes Tuan’s (2001 [1977]) reflections on time in experiential space. As he argues, distance is not a purely spatial concept: it also implies time. Therefore, the spatial experience of having a view of the open space and seeing the horizon—a common image of the future in so-called Western societies—may thus give prisoners, especially those who do not know if they will ever be released, a sense of the future, or at least of ‘hopeful times’ (Tuan, 2001 [1977], p. 123). However, since most of them have lost contact with their families and friends over time, and many of the places they used to know in the outside world have disappeared, their ideas about the future consist less of concrete plans and more of dreams and visions. Yet even though the future is difficult to imagine, many prisoners keep on ‘fighting’ against their situation in order to achieve their release.

Interestingly, what prisoners perceive through the window of their cells also depends on what they want to see or hear. Thus, to a certain extent, they also ‘arrange’ (Lussault & Stock, 2010) the view according to their sensibilities and interests. There are prisoners, like Patrick, who explicitly point to the prison infrastructure, such as ‘the wall, the wire, the cameras … [that] everything is completely under control’ (Patrick, 3.5.2016). Others told me that they ‘don’t see’ these things anymore, especially the bars in front of the window, simply because they do not want to see them. They ‘filter’ their perception through their intention to disregard everything that reminds them of being in prison. Anton told me, ‘from the window of my cell, I can see the castle, it has recently been renovated […] they did a really good job. For me it is like this: the bars, I look through them, I just see what I want to see’ (Anton, 24.3.2016). Some use the curtain for this. As I noticed, during the day many inmates would actually draw the curtains and turn on the light while in their cells. One of the prisoners explained to me that when he draws the curtain, not only does he not see the bars on the window anymore, he also does not notice when the weather is nice (Fieldnotes, 12.2.2016). As I was told by many prisoners, imprisonment is generally experienced as much harder on a sunny day. The curtain therefore helps prisoners to overlook the outside world and what they miss.

Sensing the outside world through the window of the cell is thus a source of both well-being and discomfort, as it can intensify as well as ease the pain caused by the deprivation of liberty, and it strongly shapes prisoners’ lived experience of indefinite incarceration.

4.3 A ‘Home’ or ‘a Place to Be, but not to Live’

Parts of this section were published as Marti, I. (2020). A ‘home’ or ‘a place to be, but not to live’: Arranging the prison cell. In J. Turner & V. Knight (Eds.), The prison cell: Embodied and everyday spaces of incarceration (pp. 121–142). London: Palgrave Macmillan.

4.3.1 The prison’s Accommodation Regime

While the previous sections described the materiality of the cell and the prisoners’ experiences of being in them, this section sheds light on the accommodation regime established by prison management. In general, according to internal prison rules, the cells can be ‘homely furnished’ (JVA Lenzburg, 2011, p. 21, my translation) and they must be kept ‘clean and tidy’ (JVA Lenzburg, 2011, p. 22; JVA Pöschwies, 2017, p. 8, my translation). Through such internal norms and rules as well as through the prison staff’s implementation practices, the prison instals a particular accommodation regime and thus constrains the prisoners’ possibilities of ‘doing with’ the space of the cell.

4.3.1.1 The Right to Arrange the Cell in a ‘Homely’ Way

In Switzerland, according to the law, the furnishing of one’s cell with personal objects, namely wall decorations, should be ‘generously permitted’ (Baechtold et al., 2016, p. 160).

Internal prison rules indicate that prisoners can furnish their cells in a ‘homely’ manner (JVA Lenzburg, 2011, p. 21) and have ‘personal objects’ (JVA Pöschwies, 2017, p. 8, my translation) in their cells. According to these rules, prisoners are authorized to hang pictures and photos on the wall. However, where these can (e.g. on the pin board) and cannot be put (e.g. on the door and the door frame) is clearly defined. Also, prisoners must use the specific fixing material that is provided by the prison (JVA Lenzburg, 2011, p. 22; JVA Pöschwies, 2016, p. 7). It is prohibited to hang pictures that are considered ‘shocking’, ‘defamatory’, political or religious, or photos and symbols that have a ‘provocative’ effect on others. Erotic images are allowed if they do not violate ‘the morality of someone with normal sensitivity regarding sexual issues’; pornography is prohibited (JVA Lenzburg, 2011, p. 31, my translation).

Prison and security officers regularly have to ‘search’ the cells for prohibited objects that prisoners might have illicitly acquired. These so-called ‘risk objects’ include weapons, literature on weapons, escape tools and mobile phones (JVA Lenzburg, 2011, pp. 60–61). Objects that could be used for illegal purposes, but which are not illegal as such, fall into the same category. However, this is also a matter of interpretation. One day during my fieldwork, prison officers found a bent needle and a piece of wire with a small mirror attached to it in one of the cells. It was clear to the staff that this prisoner was hiding a SIM card, and that he used the needle and the mirror to locate it in its hiding place. Even though the prisoner denied this, he was sanctioned (Fieldnotes, 6.4.2016). As I noticed, prohibited objects are also something relational. For instance, posters showing semi-naked women in the cell of a prisoner who was sentenced for a sex crime are met with scepticism by some prison officers, and sometimes even with zero tolerance. The same applies to video games with children as key actors if the prisoner who wants to play them was sentenced for the sexual abuse of children. Objects that may ‘potentially foster criminal fantasies’ should, according to prison management, not be in a prisoner’s cell (Fieldnotes, 3.2.2016).

The prisoners are allowed to buy additional furnishings, such as a carpet or a reading lamp (JVA Lenzburg, 2011, p. 21; JVA Pöschwies, 2016, p. 7). However, numbers and styles are limited, and they must generally fulfil specific standards (e.g. a specific size in the case of a carpet). They can buy plants from the prison garden, but it is forbidden to keep flowers in the cell. Stuffed animals are accepted if they are not bigger than 25 cm (JVA Pöschwies, 2016, p. 7). Moreover, it is prohibited to obstruct the view into the cell, by installing a curtain on the cell door, for example (JVA Lenzburg, 2011, p. 23; JVA Pöschwies, 2016, p. 7). It is also not permissible to use a towel as a tablecloth (JVA Pöschwies, 2016, p. 1). If the prison furniture is not fixed (which is today the case only in JVA Pöschwies), the prisoners can move it; however, they are not completely free to do so. For instance, it is prohibited to move furnishings to the so-called ‘wet area’ (where the toilet and the sink are installed), and they must be ‘put on their legs’ rather than placed upside-down (JVA Pöschwies, 2016, p. 1, my translation).

Finally, prisoners can be transferred at any time, and their personal items can be confiscated—with or without notification.

I have never arranged the cell in a particular way. Because, I had to change cells six times … no: one, two, three, four, five … eight times in the course of 18 years. Of which two times were voluntary and six times the officers just packed my stuff … and so a whole range of books, my private duvet, pillow, stereo, they lost it all somewhere. And the worst is, I have complained and asked: when do you bring the second pallet with all my stuff?, and they said: you never had one (laughs). (Jonathan, 2.5.2016)

From my observation, in all three prisons, long-term prisoners generally have more objects in their cells compared to short-term prisoners. This is mainly the result of the informal loosening of the rules in the case of this particular prison population, based on the recognition that these prisoners may stay behind bars forever.

[B]ut [concerning furnishing] we also negotiate, especially with these prisoners. I think exceptions are something dangerous, I think you can only allow exceptions when you can justify them […] But people like Clément, or Paul, who are here for a very long time, they may have a little bit more compared to the others. But this can be justified, we can say: he will stay for a longer period of time, or, you know, maybe he will never come out again. (Prison management member E., 7.7.2016)

We [in the unit for ill and elderly prisoners] do not strictly apply the rules of order and [owing] things, so they can have relatively a lot in their cells actually, order and buy things. We simply have to be aware that many of them are there for a lifetime, it’s not the same as someone who’s in for two years or so. And indefinite incarceration is in the strict sense no longer a punishment, which is also something that you have to consider a little bit sometimes. (Prison officer H., 12.11.2013)

However, from the prison and security officers’ point of view, there can also be ‘too many objects’ in a cell. ‘Too many’ refers both to the number of objects in general and the number of similar items (e.g. several bottles of shower gel or olive oil), but also to objects that have lost their initial function (parts of an old computer, a broken lamp). Cells with too many objects are often described as ‘messy’. While this can refer to a lack of tidiness (as further described below), so-called ‘messy cells’ also complicate cell searches.

From the perspective of some prisoners, the management’s individual-based handling of furnishing rules and the granting of additional personal objects is considered ‘very vague’. ‘One has got it [a particular object], the other doesn’t; from another one it has been taken away […] this is also something that stresses me out’ (Leo, 23.3.2016). At the same time, however, this also provides prisoners with room for negotiation (see Sect. 4.4.2).

4.3.1.2 The Obligation to Keep It ‘Tidy and Clean’

In addition to the instructions regarding cell furnishings, there are several internal rules regarding the maintenance of the cell: ‘The cell and its furnishing must be tidy and clean, and clearly arranged at all times. It should be lit by daylight’ (JVA Lenzburg, 2012, p. 22, my translation). According to the Oxford Dictionaries, ‘tidiness’ refers to ‘the state or quality of being arranged neatly and in order’ (Oxford Dictionaries, 2018c). A lack of cleanliness indicates the presence of ‘dirt’, defined by the same source as ‘[a] substance, such as mud or dust, that soils someone or something’ (Oxford Dictionaries, 2018a). However, as emphasized by Douglas, ‘there is no such thing as absolute dirt: it exists in the eye of the beholder’ (1966, p. 2). In prison, the order and tidiness of the cell is part of a regular assessment by prison officers or, depending on the prison, security officers, who are thus endowed with the power of definition.

During fieldwork, I noticed that some officers clearly distinguish between tidiness and cleanliness and define the latter as a reason to intervene:

In the prison officers’ office, we [a prison officer and I] were having a chat about the cell and the way he controls it. He told me that years ago he used to be much stricter, for example when someone hadn’t made the bed. But now he thinks that those who haven’t done it probably wouldn’t do it either in the outside world. So he thinks that it should be as close to the outside world as possible. That’s why he only makes a remark when the cell is ‘really dirty’. Otherwise, he said that he ‘doesn’t care’ about it. (Fieldnotes, 6.4.2016)

Others, however, intercede if, from their point of view, the cell is not tidy enough:

[One of the prison officers] came back from cell inspection. In the office, he reported to his colleagues that the cell of [one of the prisoners] was ‘messy’. Apparently, various bags were ‘just standing around’. The staff was wondering whether he [the prisoner in question] was just too busy at his new job and therefore didn’t care about the order in his cell or if he would tidy up later in the evening. The next day, it turned out that he had prepared these bags for an upcoming visit in a couple of days. One of the prison officers told him to store the bags in the cupboard. (Fieldnotes, 13.4.2016)

For others, tidiness and cleanliness go hand in hand, and both have to be judged:

This morning, I accompanied two prison officers on their assignment to inspect some of the cells while the prisoners [those who are able] were at work. We began on the second floor, moving from cell to cell. Whenever a cell was in perfect order, they called it ‘military’. According to [the first prison officer] this was ‘especially the case with the Muslims’. [The second prison officer] said that ‘especially the paedophiles’ were, in contrast, ‘extremely grubby’. As we came closer to the cell of [a prisoner] who is considered to have ‘very strong’ body odour, the two [officers] started to express disgust by making a wry face. Indeed, I could recognize a strong smell once they opened the cell door. While [the second prison officer] stepped back, [the first prison officer] went in with quick steps, pinching his nose with his fingers. He walked straight to the window and opened it. As they told me the day before, they had instructed the prisoner several times to open the window every morning, but he doesn’t seem to follow the rule. [The second prison officer] started to swear while walking to the prisoners’ dining room [located on the same floor] to open another window. A draught flowed through the floor, and the cell door banged loudly. The two officers continued on their way to the next cell, loudly swearing and complaining. One of the elderly prisoners came across and mumbled that there was no need to check his cell, another officer already did so earlier and ‘anyway’ he said, he was ‘allergic’ to this. We continued on our way. (Fieldnotes, 7.4.2016)

As this last example illustrates, officers’ judgements of the prisoners’ maintenance of their cells may range from ‘extremely grubby’ to ‘military’—both being far beyond ‘normal’. Obviously, such a perspective makes it almost impossible for prisoners to meet prison officers’ demands. The discussion of a prisoner’s body odour points to what I propose calling invisible dirt. Although it was a unique event during my fieldwork (and should probably also be interpreted as a performance by the prison officers that was influenced by my presence), the prisoners’ body odours were discussed on a regular basis. As ‘bad’ body odour may be a sign of self-neglect or even point to illness, it makes sense from an institutional point of view to pay attention to it. In the incident recounted above, as far as I was informed, the prisoner in question was in good health and took care of his personal hygiene. His body odour, however, became a major issue for some prison officers, and they expressed discomfort whenever they had to interact with him or enter his cell. The prisoner’s smell simply ‘occupied’ too much space. According to Pink (2009), who refers to Largey and Watson 2006 [1972]), body odours have communicative functions and can be seen as a form of ‘impression management’ through which individuals generally try to ‘avoid moral stigmatization’ by presenting an approved or appropriate ‘olfactory identity’ (Largey & Watson, 2006 [1972], p. 35). In a society where bodily odours and secretions in general are defined as a major cause of the ‘disgust emotion’ (Curtis & Biran, 2001, p. 21), the prisoner’s decision—conscious or not—not to aerate his cell in order to reduce the negative effects of his body odour on the prison officers ‘offends against the order’ (Douglas, 1966, p. 2). Were it a conscious act, the prisoner’s decision to expose prison staff to his body odour knowing that this provoked emotions of disgust could be interpreted as an ‘everyday form of resistance’ (Scott, 1986).

In line with Douglas’ (1966) argument that ‘absolute dirt’ does not exist, these two examples show that whether a cell is kept ‘tidy and clean’ is always the result of a subjective assessment, shaped by the officers’ views and stereotypes regarding certain offenders (e.g. the ‘grubby paedophiles’) and their ways of exerting authority (e.g. to make a remark only when the cell is ‘really dirty’). In prison, however, these assessments have powerful consequences. They lead to notes in the prisoner’s record—‘cell order: sufficient. The cell is overloaded and chaotic’ (Extract from a prisoner’s record, my translation)—and immediate sanctions if it is decided that the cell order does not follow the rules.

The prisoners’ experience of being in the cell is further shaped by the prison’s internal rules regarding furnishing and maintaining the cell, which is the topic of the next section.

4.3.2 Arranging the Cell

As shown above, the furnishing and maintenance of a cell are highly constrained by the prison’s accommodation regime. Internal rules and prison and security officers’ practices restrict the number, type and arrangement of objects in the cell and define the degree of order and tidiness. However, the prisoners’ ways of inhabiting the cell are never fully determined by the prison. As I show in the following, prisoners use, appropriate and (re)arrange the institutional spatio-temporal order that defines the prison cell through individual practices and thereby ascribe new meanings and values to the prison cell to create personal and intimate spaces.

4.3.2.1 Transforming the Cell into ‘a Home’

During my fieldwork, I visited the cells of some of the prisoners with whom I had established closer connections. It began with an invitation from Clément, who was eager to show me his cell:

In the afternoon, I went to Clément’s cell. He welcomed me by saying: ‘Welcome to my three-room-apartment, reduced to one room’. He smiled. His ‘apartment’ indeed looked quite cosy and is well furnished: there are two carpets on the floor, a TV, a stereo system, a computer, a wall clock, pictures on the wall, cooking utensils, and a lot of spices. We stepped in a little bit, and he explained to me how he arranged the three ‘rooms’ or areas (the cooking area, the wash corner, and the living area) and talked about his strategies in order to make the best out of this limited and highly controlled place: ‘You have to use space to a maximum’. (Fieldnotes, 8.2.2016)

As this example suggests, the rigid accommodation regime installed by the prison does not prevent prisoners from transforming their cells into something else, for instance, as some said, into a ‘home’. This arrangement can be carried out through a wide range of techniques: (1) narratives, (2) the arrangement and use of objects, (3) the application of domestic patterns of movement and activities and (4) the use of the senses.

Regarding prisoners’ narratives about the cell, many explicitly refer to their cell as their ‘home’ or ‘room’. ‘I don’t say cell, I say: This is my room, my studio (laughs)’ (Darko, 6.5.2016). Also, they use the verb ‘to live’ (leben/wohnen) regarding their cell, which in German means far more than simply existing.

Today was a busy day. In addition to the new face [a newly arrived prisoner] in the unit, the distribution of the two-week ‘city purchase’ had to be accomplished. At some point it became quite hectic, and suddenly one of the prisoners came out of his cell and complained, saying that ‘now it’s too loud and too turbulent for me’, and, after all, he was the one who ‘lives here’ and that we were here in ‘his house’. [One of the prison officers] and I looked at each other in amazement and then, after some seconds, [the prison officer] replied: ‘Yes, that’s true’. Without saying anything more, the prisoner then returned back to his cell and closed the door behind him. (Fieldnotes, 16.5.2013)

Narratives of the cell as a home might reflect what Tuan (2001 [1977], p. 32) considers a basic human need: the need to ‘anchor’ one’s personality to objects and places. According to the author, ‘all human beings appear to have personal belongings and perhaps all have the need of personal place, whether this be a particular chair in a room or a particular corner in a moving carriage’ (Tuan, 2001 [1977], p. 32). For Tuan (2001 [1977], p. 144), a home involves emotions; it is an ‘intimate place’, a place where people feel a sense of attachment and rootedness, where they feel safe and cared for. Home is also related to familiarity. Through ‘routine activity’ people transform an ‘unknown space’ into a ‘familiar place’ (Tuan, 2001 [1977], p. 73). This also echoes Toch’s idea of ‘niches’ in prison, which he defines as ‘settings that provide a sense of belonging and of familiarity’ (1996 [1977], p. 240).

These two aspects, the feelings of belonging (and linked to this the feeling of relief and security) and familiarity, also came out in the prisoners’ narratives. Many prisoners said that the cell had become their ‘favourite place’ in prison because they could find peace and quiet there. The expression ‘to have got used/accustomed to’ was also used frequently during interviews. For instance, Jonathan explained: ‘[M]eanwhile, [the cell] is the place where I feel comfortable, where I can rest and find peace and quiet’ (Jonathan, 2.5.2016). The statement that ‘one gets used to it over time’ was often followed by the expression that ‘this is home now’: ‘I got used to it, I know everything now [how the prison functions] […] I feel at home now, so to speak’ (Erwin, 19.10.2017). By focusing on the narratives of the cell using Tuan’s (2001 [1977) perspective, the transformation of the cell into a home appears to be the result of an almost ‘natural’ process, based on the very basic human need to belong somewhere, combined with a process of familiarization.

Leder (2004) sees a more active intention behind the transformation of the cell into a home, interpreting it as a ‘reclamation of space’ in order to ‘humanize’ the prison. ‘If spatiality has become constricted, ruptured, disoriented, even reversed, [there are prisoners who] will do what is possible to reverse the reversals. [They] will make of [their] cell a home’ (Leder, 2004, p. 58), not only through narratives, but also through furnishing. Indeed, in addition to the narrative of the cell as a home, the prisoners I talked to also made use of the spatial and material elements in the cell in order to transform it into a home (as illustrated in Figs. 4.4, 4.5, 4.6, and 4.7).

Fig. 4.4

(Source Photo by Andreas Moser)

A homely furnished prison cell

Fig. 4.5

(Source Photo by a prisoner)

Plants in a prisoner’s cell

Fig. 4.6

(Source Photo by a prisoner)

Personalization of the cell through decoration

Fig. 4.7

(Source Photo by a prisoner)

A prisoner’s ‘kitchen’

Fig. 4.8

(Source Photo by Irene Marti)

The computer: For many prisoners the most important tool for distraction

Even though the possibilities are limited, through the (re)arrangement and usage of particular objects they create what they consider a ‘cosy ambiance’. They typically put carpets on the floor, buy plants, maybe keep birds (the only animal that is allowed in prison) and hang photos and posters on the wall.

I want to furnish it so it doesn’t look like a cell anymore, but rather a space where one sees that there is someone living in there: there lives a person, a human being, someone who also feels comfortable. So, I want to put a carpet, plants … things like that. (Leo, 23.3.2016)

Leo’s statement echoes Ugelvik, who defines the transformation of the cell into a home as a ‘freedom-creating-action’, whereby prisoners challenge their institutionally ascribed status and ‘mak[e] themselves into something other than a prisoner’ (2014, pp. 73–75). The personalization of the cell, especially through decoration, is also described as an effort to create ‘the illusion of ownership, the feeling of private life’ (Moran, 2013, cited in Ugelvik, 2014, p. 118), an attempt to express ‘personal identity’ and a way to ‘manoeuvre within the space of the other’ (Baer, 2005, p. 215). In a similar manner, Martel (2006, p. 602) describes keeping personal objects in the cell as a way to maintain ‘a connection to one’s past history’ and to remember ‘the self and its relation to others’.

I argue that by transforming the cell into a home through narratives, furnishings and decorations, prisoners not only personalize the space with the aim to ‘humanize’ the prison (Leder, 2004) and ‘to leave their marks on the prison landscape’ (Baer, 2005, p. 210), but also to manipulate their ‘sense of size and spaciousness’ (Tuan, 2001 [1977], p. 54). In addition to the acquisition and arrangement of objects, when furniture is not fixed, prisoners usually move it (within the frame of possibilities); for instance, David did so to create ‘more space’ and a friendlier ambiance:

Yes, I moved the desk a little further down, closer to the window … and the cupboard, I pushed it closer to the bed, so, like this I have more space up there. Because the mates [fellow prisoners], when they come into my cell, they mostly sit on the bed, one on the chair, so if another one wants to join us then he has to bring his own chair or sit on the floor. So, it’s practical to have a bit more space up there. (David, 2.5.2016)

By pushing the bed away from the corner, Darko created what he calls a ‘resting oasis’:

So, my bed is not right there in the corner, I pushed it forward a little bit. So it is like an island, a resting oasis. If it were still there in the corner, it would be … so like dismissed, like: Go to the corner, that’s where you belong! (Darko, 6.5.2016)

Through a particular arrangement of furniture and objects, Kurt transformed ‘his room’ in such a way that he sometimes even forgets that he is actually in prison:

I have birds, which I got from a mate. […] And I bought plants, and on the floor I have put a carpet. And on the walls I hung a few pictures, and my flag, my country flag. Sometimes, when I come into my room, I don’t know whether this is my house or prison (laughs). There is no difference at the moment, because I’ve been here for ten years, it feels like I was born here (laughs). (Kurt, 3.5.2016)

The creation of a homely ambiance can also be something temporary, by ‘misusing’ prison furniture and objects to transform them (temporarily) into something else. Very common is the dismounting of the cupboard door to create a table, big enough for four prisoners to enjoy a meal together. More of an exception is the story of a prisoner who told me that he transformed an object he (illicitly) ‘borrowed’ from his workplace into a grill to enjoy a barbecue with fellow prisoners (Fieldnotes, 22.3.2016).

As these last two examples suggest, the transformation of the cell into a home takes place through domestic patterns of movement and activities (see also Ugelvik, 2014, p. 118). One of the elderly prisoners told me that he lives ‘like a family life’ with two younger fellow prisoners, whom he has ‘practically adopted’ (Fieldnotes, 8.2.2016). They used to visit him in his cell, to lie on his bed and relax, watch a movie or listen to music together. These activities (watching TV together) and positions (lying down) emphasize ‘comfort and domestic laziness’ (Ugelvik, 2014, p. 118). Also, as he told me, he often cooks for them, usually once a week, after their sports lesson.³ Sometimes he cooks everything by himself, but usually he uses the leftovers he keeps from prison meals, out of which he prepares ‘a new meal’ (Fieldnotes, 8.2.2016). Another prisoner told me how he and his ‘best friend’ in prison celebrated Christmas together by sharing a bottle of wine in his cell that they had illicitly bought from a fellow prisoner (Fieldnotes, 23.2.2016).

Prisoners in all the prisons I visited have permission to meet in the evening. In the Strafanstalt, prisoners are not only able to socialize during the evening (on a more spontaneous basis), but also in the context of so-called ‘cell visits’ during the weekends, which have to be organized and granted in advance. During these get-togethers, they usually cook and eat together, play games, have a chat or watch a movie, with the principle aims of creating a ‘cosy’ (Hugo, 23.3.2016) atmosphere and experiencing moments of ‘peace’ (Clément, 24.3.2016) and ‘normality’ (Louis, 22.3.2016). By engaging in domestic patterns of movement and activity, they make themselves feel at home. Although temporary (at least in prison), according to Tuan, human encounters are essential in the experience of home, because often ‘the value of place [is] borrowed from the intimacy of a particular human relationship; place itself offer[s] little outside the human bond’ (2001 [1977], p. 140). He argues that although for most people possessions and ideas are important, ‘other human beings remain the focus of value and the source of meaning’ (Tuan, 2001 [1977], pp. 138–139).

Finally, I claim that the transformation of the cell into a home also takes place through a particular use of the senses. As noted elsewhere, there are many prisoners who ignore or do not see the bars in front of the windows anymore. David uses a particular smell to create a homely ambiance, which at the same time provides a way to maintain memories of his past (and his previous home), invisible to others:

From time to time I offer myself the luxury of buying a small bottle of eucalyptus oil from the medical service to put a few drops on my pillow. I tell them that this helps me to breathe better, but actually the reason is a sentimental one. […] My wife used to put eucalyptus leaves in her pillow. […] It smelled really good. (David, 2.5.2016)

Lastly, through music—for instance by playing the guitar or listening to their favourite music—prisoners transform the cell into a place where they can be immersed in their ‘own world’ (Leo, 23.3.2016) and transcend the prison context.

As I have shown in this section, prisoners’ ways of transforming the cell into a home (as one way of inhabiting a cell) can be regarded as a ‘natural’ process linked to familiarization with the environment (see also Tuan, 2001 [1977]) and getting used to prison. It can also be defined as an attempt to express individuality and put a personal stamp on the prison landscape (Baer, 2005) or to challenge one’s prisoner status (Ugelvik, 2014). I argue that transforming the cell into a home is also strongly rooted in the prisoners’ intention to make the best of the situation and not to worry too much about their (uncertain) future. While showing me his cell, Erwin first of all pointed to his newly purchased coffee machine, his plants and the pictures he put on the wall and explained to me: ‘This is where I live […] and since I have to be in prison, I at least want to have it as nice as possible’ (Erwin, 18.10.2017).

Markus made a similar argument. When I asked him whether the cell is a place he feels comfortable, he responded:

Comfortable? Well … I feel good in this place, as far as you can say, because it is my place, it’s my home. Of course, it is a prison cell, but since I haven’t a home outside anymore and will never have one again, I got used to it. It’s not a resignation, it’s more … not an adaptation, you come to terms with it somehow: it’s somehow a pragmatic decision to take that as your home. And it doesn’t bother me. It’s been a long time since I’ve been bothered by other people who came to close and lock the door. This doesn’t bother me anymore. I don’t even notice it anymore. (Markus, 28.8.2017)

As put forward by Crewe (2016), this is a typical pattern for long-term prisoners who have moved beyond the early sentence phase. The authors define it as a way of coping to make the problems of imprisonment more manageable over time: to accept the situation and use it in a positive way. As they argue, long-term prisoners who are further along in their sentences no longer experience the present as a form of stasis, because life is no longer considered ‘on hold’ (in the past, or being lived elsewhere); they now consider the prison their ‘home’ and ‘the only place where life could meaningfully be led’ (Crewe et al., 2016, p. 10). Similarly, I argue that transforming the cell into a home is also about ‘normalising’ incarceration and transforming it into ‘a frame of action’ (see Vigh, 2008, p. 11). It enables prisoners to feel comfortable and to go about their lives. However, as mentioned in Sect. 2.3.1, some prisoners told me that this requires giving up hope, letting go of their pre-prison selves and cutting their bonds to the outside world as it is too painful emotionally to live in two different worlds.

As I illustrate in the following, in contrast to prisoners who transform the cell into a home, I met prisoners who said that they would ‘never’ want a cell to be their home.

4.3.2.2 The Cell as ‘a Place to Be, but not to Live’

Lars was one of the prisoners with whom I had frequent contact during my fieldwork. I spent several days with him and even helped him at work. At the end of our collaboration, I asked him if I might visit his cell, to which he agreed. We arranged an appointment for the following day:

In the afternoon, after the prisoners’ work hours had ended, I was waiting at the [security] pavilion [in the centre of the prison], until all the prisoners were locked in their cells. I then searched for a security officer who was willing to escort me to Lars. Once we arrived at his cell, the officer knocked at the door and, after a few seconds, opened it. Lars came to the doorstep and welcomed me. The officer offered to remain close to me, but I explained to him that there was no need for that and that I would not close the door completely. The officer agreed, I stepped in, and the officer pulled back the door – almost completely. So, here I was. I was surprised: the cell was almost empty! This was not at all what I expected, especially because Lars is one of the prisoners who will probably have to stay in prison for the rest of his life. I noted that he didn’t wear shoes and I apologized for wearing shoes myself and asked if I should take them off. He said no. I felt a bit lost and uncertain facing this empty cell: no cooking utensils, no pictures, no decoration at all, except the flag of his home canton above his bed, which he had mentioned several times during our collaboration. He remained silent, kept looking at me, and I felt the need to start a conversation. I started to comment on what I saw. First the flag: I said that I had imagined it to be on the ceiling. He explained to me that he would love that, but it was not allowed by the management. I then went to the window and asked: ‘What kind of view do you have?’ and he replied: ‘None, there’s just the courtyard’. I then mentioned that he had hardly any private materials, like pictures. He then took a photo album out of the cupboard and showed me some pictures of his family. I wanted to know if he didn’t request a bigger cell [long-term prisoners do have this option] to which he replied: ‘No, I am anyway hardly inside. Just for sleeping. And besides that, with a bigger cell one has much more to do [a reference to cleaning]’. We then had a chat about my project and soon after we said good-bye by shaking hands. I thanked him for showing me his cell and stepped outside. At his workplace the following day, Lars explained to me that he doesn’t intend to furnish the cell in a ‘too cosy way’. Also, he doesn’t want to put photos of his family on the wall because he wants to ‘protect them’. To him, to settle in means ‘to accept’ his situation and this would mean ‘giving up on himself’. (Fieldnotes, 17.2.2016)

Facing a ‘cell’ and not a ‘home’, as in the case of Clément discussed in the previous section, was a confusing experience for me, and I felt irritated standing inside the empty cell. In reaction, however, I tried to behave according to commonly accepted social rules or norms for guests (e.g. asking about taking off my shoes, enquiring about the view) in order to establish ‘normality’ (see Garfinkel, 1973). Through his reaction (and later his explanations), Lars made it clear to me that the cell is a place where he does not want to belong. He did not decorate the cell in a personal way (with the exception of the flag), and he described it simply as a place he uses for sleeping, a place without any view. At first glance, he also did not act like a typical ‘host’ (he did not care whether or not I took off my shoes and did not start a conversation), until he showed me pictures of his family members.

Like many other, Lars uses the narrative of the cell as a place to be, but not to live (see also Leder, 2004, p. 58). These prisoners’ ways of inhabiting a cell are based on their refusal to create a home for themselves in prison, which for them would basically mean to create a ‘cosy’ ambiance. For them, to feel comfortable in prison is equivalent to accepting their incarceration and giving up hope (see also Crewe 2009, p. 442; Milhaud, 2009, p. 291). In this regard, Rolf mentioned that ‘[i]t’s important for me that I never get used to my cell, and never to incarceration. I don’t want that. I must avoid it. Otherwise, I will perish. It would mean abandoning freedom’ (Rolf, 6.5.2016). Anton told me that ‘it makes my hair stand on end when someone starts to talk about his cell by calling it ‘my room’ […] for me it’s just a cell. […] It’s a place to be, but not to live’ (Anton, 24.3.2016). In contrast to Leder (2004, p. 58), who labels this attitude a ‘strategy of escape’, emphasizing that prisoners who do not want to feel at home in prison consider their ‘true home’ to be in the outside world, ‘albeit one from which they are temporarily exiled’, most of the prisoners I met who shared this attitude did not mention a home outside. Perhaps this is because most of them have lost contact with their families and friends, and many of the places they used to know have disappeared. Everything has changed outside over the years. However, some prisoners talked about their dreams of establishing a new life abroad, of creating a new home. This is in line with Cohen and Taylor (1972, p. 93), who state that for long-term prisoners ‘the future in prison is unthinkable’, and thus they rely upon ‘ideas about a future life outside to sustain themselves through their temporally undifferentiated days’. However, for the prisoners I spoke to, the future is nearly unthinkable in the outside world, too. They fear that (in the case of their release) they will be too old to be integrated into the job market in Switzerland, and that the pension they would be granted would not be sufficient to live a decent life. Their ideas about the future consist, therefore, less of concrete plans and more of dreams and visions:

A mate of mine whom I met here and who is now in another prison […] we still stay in touch, we call each other, once or twice a month, when he is on holiday [temporary release]. And once he is outside, he will go to Brazil: he has a house there. And should I ever get the chance to get out again, I could go to Brazil too, that’s already fixed. Here in Switzerland, I will anyway no longer have any chance. (Hugo, 25.6.2013)

I met Marco in front of the prison officers’ office; he asked me if I had time for a conversation. I agreed and we went outside to sit in the sun, at the table at the back of the garden. He told me about his prospects. If he is able to get Art. 59 or 63,⁴ then he would be out even faster. For him, an ‘intermediate step’ would be quite ok. He also told me that he had been doing therapy again for some time now. I asked about his future plans. He wants to work in the IT business, to support customers independently, to repair PCs, about which he understands something. He would like to travel, perhaps emigrate to Belize. He gets a disability pension, on which he thinks he could live quite well. He would like to open an Internet cafe that would eventually operate without him. (Fieldnotes, 4.4.2016)

Even though the future is difficult to imagine, the majority of the prisoners who share the attitude that the prison will never be a home for them are still ‘fighting’ against their situation and hoping for their release. They say that fighting is something that keeps them alive; it is a way to resist. Therefore, they concentrate heavily on the future (although primarily on the near future) and, as seen in Sect. 2.3.1, are constantly waiting for something that may happen—a letter or visit from their lawyer or competent authority, an appointment at the court or a transfer to a more open prison. However, because of their strong desire for change and their intense orientation towards the (uncertain) future, these prisoners are constantly suffering from ‘pains of uncertainty and indeterminacy’ (Crewe, 2011a) and have difficulty giving meaning to their present lives in prison.

In contrast to prisoners who want to transform their cell into a home, these prisoners do not call their cell a home, as they do not want to feel at home. In material terms, they also do not want to arrange their cells in a homelike fashion: they want the cell to remain a cell.⁵ Most of these prisoners’ cells therefore contain few objects and personal items. This echoes Leder’s argument that prisoners do not want to create a home for themselves in prison; rather, they want to ‘refuse to become complicit with it’ and ‘orient to the outside world’ (2004, p. 58):

My cell is functionally furnished. I have everything I need … and it’s clean. But I didn’t put posters on the wall or things like that; I don’t want to furnish it like an apartment that suits my personal taste. I keep telling myself: this is not mine. (Heinz, 3.5.2016)

Just like Heinz, Anton emphasized that he had arranged his cell in a purely functionally manner: ‘It [the cell] is expediently [zweckdienlich] furnished: a computer, a printer, books, envelopes, paper, CDs, a stereo system. But otherwise, nothing else’ (Anton, 24.3.2016). However, there are also prisoners who want to create a home while keeping it ‘functionally furnished’. In this case, it is more a matter of personal taste—‘I don’t have any plants. I’m not that much of a plant person’ (Marco, 4.5.2016)—or because it is thought that too many objects make the room feel smaller.

Nevertheless, those prisoners who disassociate themselves from the prison through their narratives and ways of arranging their cells also express feelings of belonging and attachment. This became apparent, for instance, when they were describing to me their feelings after they realized that their cells had just been searched—‘like after a burglary’ (Anton, 24.3.2016).

I always think: They have been here again. I realize that they have searched the cell and think: They have been here again. Wednesday and Friday I clean the cell, the floor and everything, and then I can see footprints on the floor. That’s how I notice that they have been in my cell. (Jonathan, 2.5.2016)

Ugelvik (2014) claims that the feeling of ‘space belonging to me is [a] practical question […] a room becomes my room by me taking residence in it’ (Ugelvik, 2014, p. 117). Taking up residence in a room or a house is connected to the arrangement of things based on personal needs (and tastes). Therefore, it also always ‘reflects those who live there, their perceptions, habits and practices’ (Ugelvik, 2014, p. 117). Indeed, even though some prisoners may decide not to arrange their cells in a cosy way and do not want to feel a sense of belonging, they do store and arrange the personal objects that they keep in their cells in a way that suits them best. Perhaps they only have the basic items handed out by the prison, such as plates, cutlery and cups, a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, a towel, clothes and shoes. But they might also have some more ‘private’ ones: a postcard from a friend, photographs of family members (though kept hidden from others) or a note that confirms their next visit.

I argue that the feeling of attachment may also be a result of the fact that the cell is the place where they can be alone and pass unobserved time, where they sleep, have sex, get dressed, use the toilet (see also Ugelvik, 2014, p. 121)—all activities that are (at least in so-called Western societies) considered ‘intimate’ and ‘private’ and not performed in public (Hall 1982). The cell is also the place in prison where they are ‘not on show’ (Ugelvik ,2014, p. 123): where they can freely express the emotions they usually try to control or hide from staff or fellow prisoners. Hence, independently of whether or not the prisoners intend to transform the cell into a home, the cell constitutes (to some degree) a personal and private territory, which, in one way or another, prisoners try to defend.

4.4 Personal Spaces, Privacy and Intimacy

The lack of privacy can be considered a central aspect of the ‘pains of imprisonment’ (Sykes, 1971 [1958]). However, the cell is nevertheless a place (if not the only one) where prisoners find (at least some degree of) privacy (see e.g. Cohen & Taylor, 1972; Goffman, 1961; Milhaud, 2009; Toch, 1996 [1977]).

Ugelvik (2014) explores the notion of privacy in prison with a special focus on activities and within the frame of the public/private dichotomy. As he notes, the cell is the place where prisoners ‘eat, work on homework or studies, sleep, watch TV, lie and think, receive guests, go to the toilet and have sex (with themselves)’ (Ugelvik, 2014, p. 121). It therefore functions as a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, a bedroom, a toilet and a home office. Thus, in contrast to common areas such as the wing, the courtyard or the workplace, the cell can be considered a ‘private’ and ‘intimate sphere’ (Ugelvik, 2014, p. 121), which is commonly—as I argue, at least in Western societies (see also Mallett, 2004)—associated with the notion of ‘home’. However, Ugelvik emphasizes that while in the outside world the home consists of more or less private places—with the bedroom considered to be the most private, the dining room the most public—in prison, ‘prisoners simultaneously invite guests into the bathroom, living room and bedroom’ (Ugelvik, 2014, p. 121). And, in contrast to the outside world, prisoners do not have the ability to entirely control the entry of others. While it is possible to refuse or grant access to fellow prisoners, prison staff have the right to enter at any time without warning. The common order of ‘public’ and ‘private’ is therefore challenged in the prison context. The author nevertheless concludes that behind their closed cell doors, the prisoners can, at least to some extent, relax and experience private life (Ugelvik, 2014, p. 123).

For Moran (2013), a sociological conceptualization of privacy associated with the familial and domestic space is problematic in prison, because prisoners are by definition detached from home and family. Also, there might be institutions where prisoners are accommodated in dormitories (Moran et al., 2013) or share a cell (Jewkes, 2005). Following Bailey (2000), Moran et al. (2013) suggest conceptualizing ‘privacy’ as mainly composed of two interrelated dimensions: ‘intimacy’, which locates privacy in emotional closeness between individuals (e.g. close friends), and ‘the self’ (i.e. the conscious, reflective and reflexive self), combined with Goffman’s (1959) notions of ‘frontstage’ (where individuals present themselves in front of an audience) and ‘backstage’ (where the performer can relax, free from the expectations and norms that shape frontstage behaviour). The authors thus propose a notion of privacy that is not explicitly related to any particular space (Moran et al., 2013, p. 140). Based on their study of a women’s prison in Russia, they demonstrate that while there is no objective space for privacy, prisoners construct it through a wide range of tactics—for instance, in the form of close and intimate relations with fellow prisoners, which allow them to express their ‘backstage’ self (Moran et al., 2013, p. 143).⁶ Privacy can also be established through ‘the self’ in moments of spatial isolation, for instance by finding and temporarily seeking quiet places with fewer people (such as the TV room where ‘no one will bother you’), by demonstrating compliance that is rewarded with privileges (e.g. a job, such as housekeeping, that grants prisoners more responsibilities and moments to be alone) or by offending in order to temporarily be transferred to solitary confinement (Moran et al., 2013, pp. 143–144). Prisoners they talked to also mentioned tactics they employ to disengage mentally as well as physically from the crowds around them, for example by working, preferably in a noisy place where there is ‘time to be alone, alone with your thoughts’ (Moran et al., 2013, p. 144).

Like Moran, Pallot and Piacentini’s study, Cohen and Taylor’s (1972) exploration of privacy in a maximum-security wing at a British prison is based on a typology that delineates different dimensions of privacy. Following Westin’s (1970) definition, the authors conceptualize privacy as consisting of four basic states: ‘solitude’, ‘intimacy’, ‘anonymity’ and ‘reserve’ (Cohen & Taylor, 1972, pp. 78–85). Their results generally show a ‘complete lack of privacy’ (Cohen & Taylor 1972, p. 78). First, due to the so-called ‘Judas holes’ in the cell doors and wide ranging electronic surveillance (electronic devices under the floors of the cells that allow for the monitoring of movement and CCTV in all areas of the wing), it is never possible to experience ‘solitude’ (i.e. ‘being alone and unobserved by others’) or ‘free places’ in the sense of Goffman (1961), in the prison wing where they conducted research. Furthermore, according to Westin’s definition, experiencing ‘intimacy’ between two or more people in order to achieve ‘maximum personal affinity’ requires not only freedom from the presence of others but also from distracting noises. Again, this is ‘never’ possible for the prisoners in the particular wing studied by Cohen and Taylor. Third, while ‘anonymity’ (i.e. ‘freedom from identification and observation in public spaces’ [Cohen & Taylor, 1972]), which allows individuals to relax, might be available to some degree in large prisons, it is not possible to achieve in this particular wing. Cohen and Taylor (1972, p. 181) even point out a dual lack of anonymity: ‘they are open to being approached and addressed by anyone in the wing, [and] their identities are public knowledge and therefore anything they do and say can be transformed into a story’. Finally, to ‘reserve’ means not to reveal certain personal or shameful aspects of oneself (see also Toch, 1996 [1977], p. 35). In this wing, however, the officers know the lives of the prisoners in detail, their mail is read and their conversations with visitors are overheard. Although the authors argue that the only place that provides prisoners with ‘some private territory’ is the cell (Cohen & Taylor, 1972, p. 80), they identified a ‘lack of privacy of all kinds’, which they concluded has ‘serious consequences for the men’ (Cohen & Taylor, 1972, p. 82).

I agree with Moran (2013) that the experience of privacy is not limited to the cell per se but can be created and experienced in various time–space constellations. In this section, I nevertheless propose to locate privacy in the cell. In contrast to the Russian example, in the prisons in which I undertook research, the prisoners are all held in single cells. As in Ugelvik’s (2014) study, in contrast to common or ‘public’ areas such as the workplace or the courtyard, the cell is the place where prisoners can withdraw, where they can relax and spend some unobserved time (‘solitude’). Unlike the conditions described by Cohen and Taylor (1972), none of the three prisons studied have cells equipped with electronic surveillance devices. In the AGE, there are also no cameras on the two floors where the cells are located. Although there is a door viewer in every cell door of the Strafanstalt and the 60plus, as I observed, it is never or only rarely used, and as I was told by officers, the reason for this is precisely to grant the inmates more privacy. Also, as I describe in the following sections, the cell is the place where prisoners experience moments of closeness with fellow prisoners (‘intimacy’). However, as in every prison, the prisoners cannot lock their cells from the inside, and prison staff are allowed to step in at any time of the day without warning.

While the prisoners I talked to generally agreed that ‘real privacy’ does not exist in prison, they nevertheless did not experience a ‘complete lack of privacy’ (Cohen & Taylor, 1972, p. 78), but could transform the cell into a ‘private refuge’ (Hugo, 7.9.2017) and experience ‘peace and quiet’ (Jonathan, 2.5.2016). While the above-mentioned studies argue that the degree of privacy in prison (or rather the lack of it) is mainly the result of structural factors, of ‘the technique of regimentation and imperative of custody’ (Moran et al., 2013, p. 139), I show in the following section that it is also greatly shaped by mundane staff behaviour, for instance when opening and entering a prisoner’s cell. I then show that privacy—as a social construct (Hall, 1982)—does not mean the same thing for every prisoner, and that prisoners develop a wide range of techniques in order to create what they consider to be private and intimate spaces.

4.4.1 The Role of Prison Staff

As mentioned by all the prisoners, prison and security officers’ behaviour has a major impact on the prisoners’ experiences of the cell as a private place. For instance, as shown above in Sect. 4.2.2, officers can perform the ordinary practice of opening (and closing) cell doors in many different ways: they can simply open it (without any warning), or they can knock before doing so (see also Ugelvik, 2014, p. 122). In one of the prisons where I did not carry keys, I was once asked by a security officer to accompany him during his task of opening the cell doors in order to let the prisoners out for work. Even though I hesitated, he insisted that I open the doors myself because, as he said, ‘locking and unlocking cell doors has an effect on you’. He explained further that in contrast to those officers who ‘intentionally slam’ the doors, he tries to do it in a ‘gentle’ way (Fieldnotes, 11.2.2016). Many of the staff members I met usually knocked, which was very much appreciated by prisoners. However, there are also different types of knocking: some use their hand, others their keys—which, of course, provoke different, more or less prison-like, sounds. Also, staff members can decide whether to acquiesce to the wishes of the prisoner in case he asks the officer to wait some minutes before opening the door, for instance because he is using the toilet or is about to get dressed.

When prison or security officers enter the cell in order to carry out a search—which usually takes place while the prisoners are at work—they can again be more or less careful, and more or less aware of the traces they may leave behind (in addition to the official report that has to be handed to the prisoner to inform him that his cell has been searched) and to the arrangement of objects and materials in general:

I realize when it [his cell] was searched; I notice that things are put back differently. I have a specific order and now someone comes in who doesn’t know that and disarranges everything. That’s how I notice that they have searched, that they were searching for something. (Jonathan, 2.5.2016)

Furthermore, I was told by prisoners that during cell searches staff sometimes remove or destroy objects with or without informing the prisoner; however, this seems to happen rarely. The majority of the prisoners I talked to think that most officers search their cells in a decent way, respecting the prisoner’s privacy:

Louis::

Sure, they do have the duty, when they control the cell then everything has to be searched. But here, it is actually humane. They try to, how can I say, that your privacy is …

Irene::

Respected?

L::

Respected. So yes, they do inspect it, but simply, yeah, with a certain respect. (Louis, 22.3.2016)

4.4.2 Controlling Access to Personal Territories

The nature and frequency of prison and security officers entering and searching the prisoners’ cells can also be shaped by each prisoner’s behaviour. By following the prison rules and through compliance with the regime, they may become ‘inconspicuous’, which, in their experience, can influence the intensity and frequency of cell searches or inspections and thereby strengthen the borders of their personal territory.

The officers who search the cells, they don’t know exactly what is granted or not, one small lamp more or less, they don’t know that. But for some prisoners one more can already be enough [to be sanctioned]. But if you avoid making trouble all the time and shouting without any reason, this can have an influence on how the cell search is conducted. If you are a constant complainer and screamer … then a pair of scissors that is two millimetres too long, can be enough [to be sanctioned]. (Juris, 22.3.2016)

As long as you have good conversations with the officers you can be a bit … they may not see certain things. (Kurt, 3.5.2016)

As already mentioned several times, during the day, and especially when the cells are unlocked, officers as well as prisoners can enter the cell at any moment. However, prisoners can gain a certain degree of control over who enters their cell and when. In order to control access for fellow prisoners, some prisoners have established codes among themselves, such as special knocks, and other informal rules, as Theo stated:

You know when the cells are open, anyone can come in if he wants to. But I just tell myself: the cell is my private area. I let in whoever I want. […] This is structured. […] You know, they [the fellow inmates] know exactly that after dinner, from half past six to seven o’clock the door is closed. No one may knock. At seven the hole opens and then they may come in. I had to set up a regulation for myself so that I am comfortable. That I have a retreat. (Theo, 3.5.2016)

Another technique to increase the experience of privacy is the installation of an additional curtain. Even though it is prohibited (see Sect. 4.3.1), Clément and two fellow prisoners installed curtains, which they, as he explained, pull closed whenever they are using the toilet. I was at his place, in his cell, when the head of security noticed the curtain. He immediately reminded the prisoner of the rules and that an unobstructed view into the cell must be ensured at all times. Clément responded mischievously that he ‘fully respect[s] the house rules except when [he is] sitting on the toilet’. The head of security did not agree; however, at that point, he did not tell him to remove it (Fieldnotes, 22.2.2016).

Private space is also linked to personal objects. These objects are usually protected from the view of others. Many prisoners told me that they avoid exposing personal objects, which for them are most often photos of family members, because they want to ‘keep them out [of prison]’ (Fieldnotes, 11.2.2016). Others mentioned that in order to protect their privacy, they have no personal objects at all in their cells:

Hugo::

Privacy is not given in here. You always have to expect that there are officers who think: I’m going to snoop around here [in the cell].

Irene::

And how do you deal with this?

H::

I don’t have any very private things. Because I think this is my thing, that’s no one else’s business. (Hugo, 23.3.2016)

While I accompanied a security officer during a cell search, I realized that prisoners may also keep objects that do not fall into any of the above-mentioned categories (see Sect. 4.3.1), objects that, from the point of view of an outsider, are ‘non-identifiable’ and whose meaning and importance are only significant for the possessor:

In the morning, I accompanied [one of the security officers] during cell searches. On our way he explained to me that years ago syringes were a big problem, later mobile phones. Today it’s mainly about drugs. We stepped into one of the cells. He told me that he mistrusts the prisoner who stays in this cell because ‘he always makes a friendly face … very strange’. He said that he would like to find some drugs and started to search. What he found were some empty cigarette and tobacco boxes, wondering why he [the prisoner] would keep them. In addition, there was a small glass full of screws, electrical parts, and many other similar items. [The security officer] frowned while examining it carefully. He then said that [the prisoner] probably ‘found’ this somewhere on the floor, considering the construction that goes on [in one of the wings], there is currently a lot around, and he probably ‘collected’ these things from the construction site. He added that if [the prisoner] had collected ten pieces of the same sort, then this would have been a ‘theft’, but not this way. (Fieldnotes, 3.2.2016)

4.4.3 Catching the Right Moment

Privacy is also about timing. As I was told by prisoners, at a certain point they more or less know the officers’ routes and routines and at what times they are more likely to pass (or enter) their cells. Prisoners hence try to organize their intimate activities, such as using the toilet, according to their sense of the staff members’ individual rhythms. However, the routines may vary from officer to officer (e.g. the route they choose for lock-up), so, as I was told by Leo (6.9.2017), it is also helpful to listen carefully at the door, in order to hear the key that helps them to locate the officer and understand the route he or she has chosen. Some prisoners said that they get up as early as 5 am to engage in personal rituals such as praying or meditating. At this particular time of the day, the workday of the prison staff has not yet begun, and prisoners can therefore be sure not to be disturbed. In one prison, prisoners told me of a staff meeting that takes place once a week. While one staff member has to remain in the office in order to answer the phone, all the others are attending the meeting. The prisoners estimate the probability that an officer will come to check to be ‘very low’ during these two hours (Fieldnotes, 14.4.2016). They therefore have some unobserved time, particularly because there is no camera installed on the two floors where their cells are located. This moment of the week can therefore potentially be used to engage in illicit activities, such as using and sharing a mobile phone (Fieldnotes, 14.4.2016) or spending unobserved moments of (sexual) intimacy between themselves. However, being unobserved by staff can also mean being unprotected from fellow prisoners, for example in terms of (sexual) abuse or violence. One, although extreme (and as far as I know unique), example of this is the murder of a young prisoner by a fellow prisoner in 2012, in the AGE at JVA Pöschwies (Tages-Anzeiger, 2010).

Prisoners usually said that ‘there is real privacy after 8 pm’, which corresponds to the time the prisoners are locked up and most of the prison staff leave the prison. For the following 11 hours, the prisoners can relax, because they generally do not need to fear any unexpected guest. This kind of privacy is therefore what Cohen and Taylor (1972) would call solitude. However, solitude in the sense of being alone (and unobserved) is often also experienced as painful loneliness (see also Crewe, 2009, p. 440), as I further explore in Sect. 4.5 below.

4.4.4 Protecting the Boundaries of the Self

Finally, privacy can also be established through the embodied self, for example by ‘bolstering’ (Leder, 2004, p. 62) it against possible assaults from prison staff or fellow prisoners by developing the body’s energy and skills through weightlifting or yoga. Indeed, there are many prisoners who engage in physical activities while they are in the cells. Jonathan mentioned that whenever he is locked up in the cell, he walks around for several hours, or keeps busy with ‘swimming’ and ‘shadow boxing’, which makes him feel ‘good and relaxed’ (Jonathan, 2.5.2016). Leo commented that he sometimes practices yoga right after the locking-up, in order to ‘calm down’ and to ‘relax’ (Leo, 6.9.2017). Engaging in physical activity while in the cell is thus also a way to deal with the feeling of being trapped, which is usually most strongly felt immediately after the nightly lock-up, and to make the transition easier.

A technique with a similar purpose is ‘to be awake’ and ‘ready’ (Marco, 10.9.2013) when the officers unlock the cells early in the morning. Following Tuan (2001 [1977], pp. 35–36), the structure and posture of the human body as well as relations between human beings (close or distant) are fundamental principles of human spatial organization: ‘In deep sleep man continues to be influenced by his environment. […] Awake and upright he regains his world’. The upright position is generally associated with being assertive, solemn and aloof, while remaining prone is associated with submission and the acceptance of our biological condition (Tuan, 2001 [1977], p. 37). Hence, by facing the officer early in the morning, awake, and in an upright position (sitting or standing), the prisoners avoid exposing themselves in a ‘vulnerable’ condition and signify that they are ‘in command of space’ (Tuan, 2001 [1977], p. 36).

Some prisoners mentioned that they had started to pray and meditate after they were sent to prison. In the literature, these activities are also described as ‘disembodiment’, because they allow one to reach a stage of ‘pure mind and spirit’ (Leder, 2004, p. 63). In a similar sense, Moran (2013, p. 143) describe the tactic of ‘retreat into [one’s] inner self’. As expressed by Marco, being able to retreat into one’s inner self allows one to regain ‘mental free spaces’:

The more you accept being in prison, the easier you will find retreats. But these are to be found in yourself and not somewhere locally in the prison, in the sense of ‘the thoughts are free’. And, you know, someone who has only recently come to prison, his thoughts are all about being in prison, and that he hates being in prison. Someone who has been in prison for a very long time and has accepted that he is now in prison and conceives of it as his normal life, he regains his mental free spaces, and that is his privacy, to which no one actually has access, especially not unannounced (laughs). (Marco, 4.5.2016)

4.4.5 Experiencing Closeness and Intimacy

In contrast to the prisoners studied by Cohen and Taylor (1972), the prisoners to whom I spoke mentioned the possibility of experiencing close and intimate relations with fellow prisoners, which can be defined as another form of privacy (see also Moran et al., 2013). In the prisons in which I did research, intimate or private encounters among prisoners are theoretically possible when the cells are open in the evening, and, in the units reserved for elderly inmates, also during the afternoon and on weekends. In one of the prisons, prisoners can benefit during the weekends from official ‘cell visits’ when they may visit each other. For a period of two and a half hours, a prisoner can host up to three fellow prisoners in his cell. Prisoners have to obtain permission in advance for these visits. Encounters between prisoners may therefore happen more or less spontaneously and more or less controlled by prison staff.

However, intimate relations and close friendships among prisoners are generally hard to establish and even more difficult to maintain, which is primarily the result of the particular institutional environment of the prison. As pointed out by Crewe, the prison is basically an environment that is ‘low in trust and emotionally alienating’ (2009, p. 301). Prisoners are all aware of the fact that each one of them committed a (more or less) serious crime, which leads to suspicion and defensiveness. Moreover, prisons are at the same time ‘homosocial institutions’ (Crewe, 2014, p. 431), which means that social bonds have to be established between individuals of the same sex. Finally, as shown by Britton (1997), as in almost all bureaucratic organizations, prisons—where the great majority of the employees are male (see Isenhardt et al., 2014, pp. 10–11)—have a deeply masculinized (workplace) culture.

This particular environment leads prisoners to ‘mask’ emotional expressions and put on ‘fronts’ of bravado and aggression, as signs of ‘weakness and femininity’ are usually impugned (Crewe, 2014, p. 430). Prisoners I talked to agreed that in prison it is important ‘to show that one is strong’ and ‘to hide emotions, otherwise one becomes vulnerable’ and easily ‘exploited’ (fieldnotes, 11.2.2016). But prisoners also think that the suppression of emotions is the result of the prison’s goal to establish and maintain order and security. As they are asked to control their emotions, they are somehow forced to perform, as Marco termed it, ‘superficial friendliness’ among themselves (Marco, 4.5.2016), which in actuality can cause a lot of pain:

I got used to monotony in here. It’s much more the human [das Menschliche] that I miss. Everything is so rigid and formal. Though friendly and polite, I sometimes don’t feel myself. My body yes, but not my soul. Everyone is hypocritical, saying how nice and good we have it here. Superficial behaviour, day-in and day-out. Where is the human being? Where is the real interest? There is no room for such intimacies. (Letter, 21.11.2016)

Against this background, however, as Marco told me, friendship may happen, and if it does, it can be experienced as much more intense than in the outside world:

Friendship is rather rare. But if you meet someone with whom you get along really well and talk about everything and also like to spend a lot of time together and so on, then it can be almost more intense than outside. […] Because, in here, how should I say, in here we have to follow like rules of behaviour. We have to be nice and friendly to each other, so that there are no fights and so on. So it all seems a bit artificial, the interpersonal. And then the contrast is even stronger if one can really make friends with someone. (Marco, 4.5.2016)

Everyday life in prison is characterized by monotony and a lack of experiences, which also shapes the prisoners’ relations as they may run out of topics to discuss: ‘Sometimes we sit together in silence because there are no themes to talk about, everything has been said, discussed, from our past … our youth, sports, holidays, family …’ (Jonathan, 24.9.2013).

Another element that limits ‘the chance to find someone’ (Leo, 23.3.2016) involves internal rules and practices, such as the separation of prisoners into two groups, or, in the units for the elderly, the small number of prisoners. Finally, at some point, most of the prisoners get transferred—or are eventually released. While some keep in mind that their fellow prisoners will be released one day and hesitate to get too closely involved, others said that they adjust to it and try to make the best out of the time they have. Usually, the connection gets lost after release (see also Crewe, 2009, p. 309). However, I noted that several prisoners still maintain relations with those who are now in another prison, especially through letters but sometimes by phone, and very rarely also with those who have been released.

In addition to the low-trust environment of the prison that is characterized by machismo, its internal rules that aim to maintain control and security, and the possibility of transfer (or release)—which all create a certain (physical and emotional) distance between prisoners – relations among them are also structured by the prisoners themselves. That is, they draw symbolic boundaries among themselves by mobilizing various categories, such as the type of sentence (or measure), the offence, sexual orientation, nationality or personal characteristics (e.g. attributed intelligence or age). These boundaries further complicate the establishment of relations among them.

In general, prisoners serving indefinite incarceration tend to maintain relationships with prisoners ‘in the same situation’ (i.e. who have committed a similar crime and/or are also serving indefinite incarceration). Even though short-term prisoners bring in welcomed ‘inputs from the outside world’, such as what an iPhone is (Anton, 24.3.2016), and are ‘still fresh in mind and capable of establishing relations’ (Marco, 4.5.2016), those serving shorter, finite sentences are generally attributed different interests and bad habits: ‘All they think and talk about is life after prison’ (Markus, 29.3.2016) and they ‘constantly complain’ about prison life (Theo, 3.5.2016). They are described as being uninterested, unable or unwilling to understand ‘how it feels to be [a certain] offender’ (Paul, 29.3.2016) or ‘what an indeterminate measure is’ (Louis, 22.3.2016). Short-term prisoners sometimes ‘plan new offenses after imprisonment’ (Hugo, 25.6.2013), and, as they have little to lose, often participate in illicit activities, such as drug trafficking or gaining access to the Internet, and thereby endanger the stability of the environment and especially ‘certain privileges [that apply to everyone]’, such as having a personal computer (Hugo, 25.6.2013). Finally, short-term prisoners all will certainly ‘leave the prison one day’ (Leo, 23.3.2016), which is usually a painful experience for those who must remain inside. However, even though long-term prisoners are all to some extent in the ‘same boat’, the younger men (both in terms of age and years in prison) in particular perceive the elderly men with suspicion. From their point of view, long-term imprisonment, often combined with extensive medication use, has ‘deadened’ (Markus, 29.3.2016) many of the prisoners and made them look like ‘zombies’ (Anton, 24.3.2016), having lost all ability for or interest in interpersonal exchanges:

Many of the Verwahrten [prisoners held in indefinite incarceration] in here, they are just sitting stubbornly in their cell, they don’t come out, have isolated themselves, encapsulated. They are no longer interested in people, emotions, in having conversations as we have now. Many of them are like that. (Leo, 23.3.2016)

Nevertheless, almost two-thirds of the prisoners I spoke to mentioned at least one fellow prisoner to whom they feel close. However, when I asked them if they would call it ‘friendship’, most hesitated. They felt that ‘real friendship’ in prison is rare (or even non-existent) and usually prefer to use the terms ‘comradeship’, ‘colleagues’, ‘involuntary community’ or ‘community of fate’.

As Crewe (2014, p. 432) has demonstrated, closeness can be developed within the routine of mundane everyday activities, such as drinking coffee, watching TV or smoking a cigarette together, shared moments that allow prisoners to express ‘forms of concern and sensitivity’ towards each other. Prisoners I talked to mentioned that with those they feel close to, they like to play games together, cook and eat together, celebrate festivities such as Christmas or Easter, share experiences, discuss ideas, laugh, argue, sit together in silence and ‘simply be together’ (Louis, 22.3.2016).

Jonathan::

David comes ten times a day [to my cell], or I go to him. [One of his mates] has left recently; he visited him five or six times a day to drink coffee together. And now he is a bit alone. That’s why I go to him more often. Because I noticed when [David’s mate] left, he came to me 20, 30 times a day (laughs). He always wanted to tell or ask me something, that’s why I now go to him more often too.

Irene::

Is David a friend?

J::

One can say so, yes, one can say so. […] Friendship does not happen that often, but it does exist. There was a time I used to be inseparable with someone. I spent more time in his cell than in mine. We sat together, were listening to music … sometimes we had nothing to talk about and then we kept silent, just for hours we were silent. But I remember, after work, I went to him in his cell, not at all in my cell. Then having dinner in his cell […] or vice versa, he came to my place. It was like that all the time. (Jonathan, 2.5.2016)

During fieldwork, I directly observed (or was told about) several practices that I interpret as expressions of concern and sensitivity: cooking someone’s favourite dish, letting someone lie on one’s bed during a visit, helping to write a letter, lending money or assisting with everyday activities in the case of an illness (bringing food, cleaning the cell). Sympathy for the other is also expressed through gestures and making jokes:

Jonathan for me, he is … how can I put it, a good buddy. We have fun together, he always has a funny line in store, sometimes he teases me by caressing me with his hand on my head, asking me whether my bald head keeps me warm (laughs) […] He notices if I’m not feeling well. He then leaves me alone or drinks his coffee quietly but then leaves again. (David, 2.5.2016)

In addition to the provision of emotional and practical support, close prison friends also help each other to spend time, to experience moments of ‘normality’ (Markus, 29.3.2016) and sometimes even ‘to forget where one is’ (François, 23.11.2013). As Marco explained to me, ‘the structures [in prison] create monotony, but people create life because everyone has different thoughts every day’ (Marco, 4.5.2016).

However, as mentioned above, prisoners have to establish close relations within the ‘homo-social environment’ (Crewe, 2014) of the prison. As I was told by one prisoner who sent me a letter, he had trouble ‘to open [himself] and discuss [his] feelings and most intimate experiences with men’ and preferred talking to women (Letter from a prisoner, 27.6.2016). This is also an issue when it comes to sexual desire. Sexuality is a sensitive topic in general and maybe even more so in prison, where heterosexual deprivation is considered to be one of the major ‘pains of imprisonment’ (Sykes, 1971 [1958]). It was therefore difficult for me (as a female researcher) to address this topic; however, it twice became an issue during discussions I had with prisoners. I tried to introduce it by posing the rather general question of how it feels for them to be among men all the time. One prisoner replied after some seconds of reflection: ‘The [sexual] desire is there, it is strong. But you have to suppress it, as long as you are not gay’ (Fieldnotes, 9.2.2016). Sexual encounters between prisoners are not legally prohibited but generally are not allowed by the prisons in order to prevent abuse and dependencies.⁷ It is known from the literature, however, that some prisoners, including those who consider themselves to be heterosexual, nevertheless engage in homosexual encounters. This behaviour is also labelled ‘situational homosexuality’ (Marcum, 2014, p. 8; Sykes, 1971 [1958], pp. 95–99). Issues regarding heterosexual deprivation, intimate relations and homosexual encounters in prison also emerged during an informal discussion I had with three prisoners at their workplace. Only one of them, Leo, was at that time held in indefinite incarceration:

We were talking about trust, and I asked if they think that one can trust people in prison. Leo said that ‘this is difficult, one is really alone here’. But he has one person, for two years now. He will also stay in prison for a while. Also, Leo said that he finds it difficult to talk with men about feelings. I picked up the subject and asked how it is to be among men all the time. The two others joined the discussion. The elderly one said that he was glad to be a little bit older, so he ‘no longer needs it so strongly’ as the younger ones. I asked about the so-called family room, which is provided by some prisons, but not by this prison. They told me that some prisoners use the toilet in the external visitor’s area for having sex with their girlfriend or wife [Note: not every prisoner is allowed to receive guests in the outside visitor’s area. Leo for instance, due to his offense and his psychiatric diagnosis, is not allowed]. The elderly prisoner disagreed with this practice; he said that he would surely never want to have sex with his wife in this toilet, maybe with another woman, but certainly not with his wife. Leo replied, half-jokingly, ‘Aha, not with your wife, but with any other one. Why this difference?’ The elderly prisoner then said: ‘Yeah, you’re right’, and Leo pointed out that this, the public toilet, is actually the only option in prison. They started a discussion on gay prisoners and how ‘good’ they have it in here, such a ‘big choice’! Everyone laughed. Especially one prisoner ‘tries it’ with everyone, they told me. Apparently, he has tried again and again, and even already twice with Leo. He said, he once tried while they were together in the cell, alone; he (Leo) then had to press the alarm button. He also tried with an older man, apparently several times, who then threatened him and told him to ‘not even greet him anymore’. ‘To become gay in prison’ is something none of the three can imagine happening to them. (Fieldnotes, 16.2.2016)

Similarly, another prisoner said that for homosexuals, prison is ‘like paradise’ and that he is ‘sometimes mad at them, because they have something [he] [hasn’t]’. However, the same prisoner thought that this is also one of the reasons why they often are discriminated against and therefore ‘don’t have an easy life either’ (Fieldnotes, 9.2.2016). During fieldwork, prison staff told me a few stories about sexual encounters among (assumed) heterosexual prisoners. Prisoners themselves never mentioned such issues in my presence. Two prisoners explicitly told me about their homosexual orientation and that they had already had (sexual) relationships with fellow prisoners.

Masturbation is another topic that prisoners very rarely mentioned in my presence. Again, the little information I obtained derives mainly from prison staff and some interactions that I witnessed. It seems that the problem for prisoners is gaining access to ‘tools’ to stimulate their imagination, as pornography is prohibited. I once witnessed a conversation between two prisoners who were playing ping pong together. One joyfully told the other one that he had managed to buy a ‘Manga’ book of an erotic nature. He expressed surprise that this was allowed by the management and assumed that the reason for this is that it includes drawings but not photographs. He mentioned that he ‘immediately ordered more of them’ (Fieldnotes, 3.2.2016). Prison officers as well as security officers also told me that, from time to time, for example during cell searches, they find pornographic material that prisoners managed to acquire illicitly, for example on a USB stick that they received from an external visitor.

As this section has shown, the cell is a place that enables prisoners to create and negotiate privacy, and, when the cell doors are unlocked, experience closeness and intimacy with fellow prisoners. In the following section, I explore their experiences of being in the cell after lock-up, the period of the day prisoners spend (at least physically) completely alone in their cells.

4.5 Being with Time

According to the regime, during the time prisoners are locked up, which is between 14 hours (on weekdays) and 17 hours (on weekends), they generally have no possibility of (direct) interpersonal communication.⁸ When the cell is locked, prisoners have to be and do time alone with themselves, with only a few options for activities and restricted options for movement.

The majority of the prisoners I talked to told me that they have adjusted to it; they have learned to feel good while in the cell. Also, as mentioned in the previous sections, in contrast to other places, the cell is the one place in prison that prisoners (can) arrange in a personal way and that provides them with privacy. However, a small number of prisoners mentioned that dealing with the daily lock-up is still a challenge, especially the moment right after it happens. Some said that they still (after all these years in custody) suffer both physically and mentally after the nightly lock-up: that they experience ‘claustrophobia’ (Rolf, 11.9.2013) and the feeling of ‘not getting enough air’ (Leo, 23.3.2016).⁹ Leo mentioned that lock-up often represents an ‘artificial cut’ (Leo, 6.9.2017) that forces prisoners to involuntarily end a good conversation or to put on hold their desire to remain outside in the courtyard. Immediately after lock-up, there is a transitional phase during which one needs to ‘calm down’ (Leo, 6.9.2017). Leo said that he does yoga exercises for this purpose. He used to take drugs, which he has since stopped. In addition to feelings of unease and restlessness, prisoners also experience loneliness and isolation while they are locked up in their cells. For these prisoners, the time that has to pass before the cells are unlocked again seems endless. Jonathan experienced this at the beginning, but has learned to deal with it:

I used to be stressed: I looked at the clock every minute, used to behave very differently from today. I wasn’t able to bear it [staying in the cell], was just waiting to go for a walk or go to work … just out of the cell. I couldn’t bear it at all. Today, when I’m in the cell, I feel good. (Jonathan, 2.5.2016)

As I show in the following, there are various overlapping temporalities or rhythms that exist within this particular carceral context. One rhythm is imposed by the prison regime. As mentioned, prisoners spend most of their time in their cells. This is basically the place where they are supposed to rest, but also to take care of their personal hygiene and do some domestic work (e.g. cleaning the cell, changing the bed linen once a week). Yet, this imposed (institutional) rhythm may not necessarily be in accordance with the bio-rhythm of the prisoner, who is maybe not hungry at 5 pm, or who does not yet wish to take sleeping pills (if he needs them) at 8 pm—the time they are distributed by staff. Furthermore, while this protocol provides prisoners with a minimal structure while doing time in their cell, it certainly does not ‘fill’ the prisoners’ time in the cell. I will show in this section that although prisoners are not in a position to determine the duration they have to spend in the cell every day, they do have ‘scope to influence how this feels’ (O'Donnell, 2014, p. 195).

4.5.1 Killing Time

For prisoners who struggle after they are locked up in the cell, 8 pm begins a period they wish would soon be over. For those who ‘look at the clock every minute’ (see quotation above), the cell is experienced as a very narrow and lonely space, where time seems to pass very slowly. Consequently, time becomes their enemy, and they work to find ways to ‘kill it’—or, in the words of a prisoner: ‘to occupy it’ (Jonathan, 2.5.2016). In the following, I explore prisoners’ ways of killing time in two respects: as a ‘reduction of time’ and ‘speeding the passage of time’ (O'Donnell, 2014, p. 226).

According to O’Donnell (2014, p. 226), the reduction of time refers to activities that aim to make sure that there is ‘less time’ to deal with, for instance by using drugs that have a soporific effect (see also Cope, 2003) or, as I was told, by ‘oversleeping time’ (Fieldnotes, 4.2.2016), which is especially practised during the weekends when they remain locked in their cells for much longer periods. Killing time is also about speeding the passage of time, by finding ‘removal activities’ (see also Crewe et al., 2020, p. 299) in order to keep busy and absorbed or even to ‘lose all sense of time’ (Hall, 1989 [1983], p. 137). ‘Removal activities’ are thus basically about distraction (see also Goffman, 1961, p. 68). As Goffman (1961, p. 189) has demonstrated, it is partially also in the interest of the prison to provide means for distraction, as this fosters compliance (‘primary adjustment’). In the prisons in which I conducted research, the prisoners have the option to buy a radio, rent a TV or computer or borrow books from the prison library. However, the use of media is highly controlled by the prison. The computer and the TV can be removed by prison management as a disciplinary measure, and in one of the prisons, there is no access to TV or radio during the day. Hence, prisoners who are ill or unwilling to work and therefore spend the whole day in the cell cannot use these media devices. Furthermore, the selection of TV channels, computer games and DVDs is restricted. Finally, the prisoners’ computers cannot be protected with a personal password and may be searched at any time by prison staff. I was told by prisoners that the TV and the computer are the most important means of distraction in prison (see also Jewkes, 2002). Furthermore, as already mentioned, the TV is also used to drown out silence and chase away the feeling of loneliness. Other functions that the TV and the computer fulfil will be discussed below.

Besides watching TV and using the computer (illustrated in Fig. 4.7), the prisoners mentioned other, individual activities for passing or killing time while in the cell: smoking, drinking coffee, laying on the bed, walking around, listening to or making music (the instruments I came across include the guitar, the flute and the keyboard), doing physical exercise and finally waiting (e.g. to go to work or to have lunch or dinner). These activities usually become personal habits and rituals that help prisoners structure the imposed amount of time they are forced to spend in the cell. In the following passage, Jonathan, who lives in a unit for ill and elderly prisoners, explains his personal routine while locked up in the cell:

Me, I get up at five o’clock. Then I drink coffee, then I sit for two hours until seven, then they open the door […] then I go to work. […]. After work, it’s lunchtime. We finish work at eleven and then go upstairs to our floor to wait for lunch. Usually, I watch TV and read the newspaper. After lunch, I always sleep half an hour to forty-five minutes. I don’t know why, but I have learned here to sleep. […] On Friday afternoon, we have to clean our cells […] time goes very quickly during that part of the day. In the evening, we have free time. After dinner and a little TV, I read a book and listen to music. From 5.30 pm to 6.30 pm, I go for a walk. […] Sometimes I also walk in the cell, not every day but every now and then if I cannot sleep – especially during the weekend when the days are very long. When I go to bed at five o’clock [after lock-up], then I usually get up at nine and walk until ten o’clock, and as I walk I am partially listening and watching television. […] When the cell is locked, I’m usually on the bed, except when I’m walking around. Otherwise, I drink coffee, use the toilet, and then I’m walking around again. That’s it, all in all. (Jonathan, 24.9.2013)

As pointed out by O’Donnell (2014, p. 183), temporal compression is actually greatest when activities are habitual, which is expressed in the following quote, again by Jonathan:

When I was not organized, I did not work for nine years, I was bored. I was alone all day, in the cell or in the corridor or in the common room. Then I thought: In the evening I’ll watch TV until midnight, and then I’ll sleep until about 10 am. Then I’ll get up, go for a shower, read newspapers, drink coffee, then after lunch I used to cook, then two hours walking. And I noticed that my time was somehow busy. So, I’ve organized myself and time goes twice as fast as it did when I didn’t do anything. Do you understand what I mean? (Jonathan, 2.5.2016)

Creating personal routines, habits and rituals not only enables prisoners to kill time and structure their day but provides them simultaneously with ‘satisfaction’ and a feeling of ‘security’ (Leo, 23.3.2016). It helps them ‘to navigate their sentence’ (O'Donnell, 2014, p. 199) and to control and experience a sense of personal ownership of time (see also Toch, 1996 [1977], p. 225) and feelings of self-determination, autonomy and freedom of action that are important in order to maintain their sense of self (see also Goffman 1961; Wahidin & Moss, 2004).

[B]eing alone in the cell, or dealing with myself, that’s actually the hardest thing sometimes. I just don’t know then … sometimes, what I should do. I cannot always write, I cannot always read, I cannot always play games. At some point you are tired of it. And then you have to be really creative, do something new, attending a course or something. Working a bit with glass or, yes, that simple stuff. Or I developed a mania for cleaning [the cell]; this is actually very common among prisoners (laughs). And yes, I have a lot of rituals that I practice. Always the same things every day. […] This also gives you a good feeling, security and a good feeling. (Leo, 23.3.2016)

In order to create a personal routine, prisoners must know the official prison schedule (including the staff’s more or less formal routine) and rules. These serve as a frame of reference, and it is therefore important that they remain ‘stable’ and thus predictable (Marco, 4.5.2016). However, as highlighted by O’Donnell (2014, p. 199), ‘habits are comfortable, but when they fossilize the humanity is gradually drained out of human beings’. Prisoners indeed mentioned the need to bring some change into their personal routine:

Whenever I meet a newcomer, I tell him that it is very important to organize oneself. […] But you should always have variety. Because always the same is monotonous. So this means, you start one week like this, the next, another way. Then … It is important, always something as new as possible, not new, because there is nothing new, but maybe a new book, a new newspaper, new information, that is all that is new. (Jonathan, 2.5.2016)

However, the same daily structure in prison combined with personal routines (with the primary aim of killing time) may lead to the experience of what I propose calling the hyper-ordinary, which increases the possibility that prisoners completely lose their feel for the passage of time, as explained by a prisoner who sent me a letter:

I don’t feel time anymore. It comes and goes, day by day. I live according to a strict daily schedule […] I see some situations in advance because they are repeated every day […] To always live the same things, always according to the same rhythm makes me tired. It’s very demoralizing. (Letter from a prisoner, 27.6.2016)

Living a ‘prescribed life’ (Clément, 24.3.2016), perceived as being ‘always the same’ (Darko, 6.5.2016), has a strong impact on prisoners’ sense of self and their relationship to the world. For prisoners, especially long-term ones, in addition to the need to kill or control time, it is also important to experience the passage of time, which is related to the experience of change that allows them not only to feel time but also themselves.

4.5.2 Marking Time

Challenging hyper-ordinariness and creating chronology and change can be achieved by ‘marking time’ (Calkins, 1970; Cohen & Taylor, 1972), which literally means ‘setting off specific points as the beginning and the end of the duration of a period of time’ (Calkins, 1970, p. 490). Marking time is about differentiating and dividing time and putting a personal stamp on one’s temporal life (O'Donnell, 2014, p. 195). However, it requires awareness of ‘events’ that can be used as time markers. In a scene that is perceived as unchanging, there are fewer points to mark (Calkins, 1970, p. 491). Prisoners who are mainly concerned with their sentence and hoping for release (i.e. those whose mode of being with time is focused on the future) may use the annual evaluations as temporal benchmarks (see also Cohen & Taylor, 1972). Others use personal events for time marking, such as visits from their relatives or friends. Prisoners can also mark time by focusing more on the present instead of the future by organizing their daily lives into tiny, ‘digestible’ segments or events, which is closely connected to the creation of personal habits and rituals (see also Crewe et al., 2020, p. 305).

As I observed, another practice of marking time that takes place during cell time is the collection of information and data of all sorts. Prisoners mentioned and also showed me diverse lists they had created, for instance of their correspondence with the outside world (information concerning all the letters they had written and received), statistics related to sports results or their financial transactions. Another prisoner even showed me several lists he used to create, including one of films he has watched, one of the actors and actresses he knows, another of food prices that he copied from a magazine and finally one of a number of weapons (Fieldnotes, 12.2.2016). I argue that creating a list can be done for the purpose of performing the action itself; it can therefore be a habit and a way to ‘kill time’. However, it can also be an ‘event’ and therefore serve as a time marker (for example, to fill in the result every Sunday evening after a football match). Finally, making lists is also about creating awareness of the passage of time and the experience of changing times through the distinction between and comparison of events (for example, sports results, prices of foodstuffs or personal knowledge). Similar to the activity of writing lists is writing in a diary. As with lists, keeping a diary helps prisoners to sharpen their awareness of what is going on around them or inside themselves, to note their observations, to distinguish between and compare events, and therefore to experience change. However, it is commonly considered a tool for personal reflection and therefore strongly connected to the experience of personal development, which is discussed further in the following section.

4.5.3 Using Time

In contrast to short-term prisoners, who basically wait for their release to go on with their ‘normal’ lives, for prisoners who will probably stay behind bars until the end of their lives, the meaning of prison time may be different. In particular, the common strategies for doing time become pointless. In other words, not everyone simply wants to kill or pass time because life in prison most likely constitutes their remaining lifetime. Therefore, prisoners also seek to ‘use time’ (see also Flanagan, 1981, p. 218) by ‘not wasting one’s time, but benefiting from it’ (Leo, 23.3.2016). However, as argued by several authors, being able to use time is connected to the recognition that ‘one’s life is that existence which takes place within the prison’ (Cohen & Taylor, 1972, p. 93). As claimed by Crewe (2016), in contrast to prisoners at an early stage, long-term prisoners at a later stage in their sentence are less overwhelmed by the present and instead accept the flow of time and even perceive it as something that can be used constructively.

From the perspective of prisoners I talked to, activities involving simple distraction, such as watching TV, are therefore perceived critically. Although for many long-term prisoners television constitutes one of their only connections to the outside world, providing them with information and the possibility of mentally escaping the prison for a while (see also Milhaud, 2009, p. 303), watching TV is also defined by some prisoners as a way of ‘wasting time’; it is basically regarded as passive consumption that ‘takes your time away’ (Anton, 24.3.2016) or even as a ‘force, disruption and manipulation’ (Jonathan, 24.9.2013). For this reason, there are prisoners who do not have a TV in their cells (anymore). Prisoners who are particularly concerned about mental deterioration and the maintenance of their sense of self mentioned the need to engage in mental work, such as reading and studying, in order ‘to keep mentally fit’, instead of watching TV and running the risk of becoming ‘dulled and stupid’ (Fieldnotes, 7.7.2016). In the words of one prisoner, he sought ‘to develop further’ (Leo, 23.3.2016) as a human being.

I read a lot […]. And I try to watch the news more often, to be more interested, gain more knowledge, study more, contact more people, do more with people, and know more about this world and get away from my own problems, this helps. You have to have a structure in your life, or you will get lost here [in prison]. The character gets lost, the psyche gets lost, one is hopeless one day, gets drug dependent … it’s because of the extension of custody. (Kurt, 3.5.2016)

In contrast to prisoners who feel restless in the cell and count the hours until they can go out again, these prisoners use this particular period of the day for the creation of space and time to concentrate, to think and to reflect—about themselves and life in general. For them, being in the cell is not primarily about killing time, but about using time—that is, spending qualitative, creative and productive time. Some prisoners use this moment of the day to deal with their past and work on their autobiography; others keep a diary. As one prisoner explained to me, he wants ‘to capture the experiences that move him’, which helps him ‘to keep the human side’ of himself (Fieldnotes, 7.7.2016). Reflecting and writing about themselves also helps them to keep their memories alive, to (re)construct identities and to capture personal change over time. Finally, using time can also involve the development and implementation of personal projects (see also Crewe et al., 2016, p. 18), such as preparing (and later delivering) a lecture for a school lesson, developing a computer programme or learning a foreign language.

Using or spending time in general is strongly connected to the wish to achieve goals and experience (personal) change and development. In reference to Tuan’s (2001 [1977]) argument that ‘living is stepping forward’, I argue that prisoners thereby express a fundamental human need: the need to feel alive. However, the intention to make the best out of their situation and the wish to develop further as a human being are highly constrained by the institution. For example, requests to register for distance learning can be blocked by prison management, sometimes for security reasons, as I was told by Lorenzo, who wanted to enrol in a degree programme in psychology. According to him, the institution feared that this would make him ‘even more dangerous’ (Lorenzo, 23.11.2013). Furthermore, because they are classified as ‘dangerous’ and ‘untreatable’, these prisoners usually do not receive any future-oriented support, such as (temporary) prison leave or psychotherapy in order to achieve personal change. Finally, prisoners seeking change and personal development constantly battle against the power of monotony. One prisoner told me that after nine years of writing in a diary, he had given up. He did not know anymore what to write down, because ‘in prison, every day is the same, not much happens here, it doesn’t create many memories’ (Fieldnotes, 15.2.2016).

4.5.4 Transcending the Here and Now

Cell time is also a period of the day that is used to transcend the here and now and to connect to other contexts—with particular tools or through the imagination (see Lussault & Stock, 2010, p. 17). It is used to create and live imagined time–space constellations and gain personal experiences far from the carceral context—passively as well as actively.

A closer examination of the prisoners’ narratives about TV suggests that although watching television is critically perceived as a simple means of distraction, it is also a connection to other worlds, which allows them to have a ‘pause’ (Rolf, 6.5.2016) and mentally ‘escape’ the prison context for a while (see also Jewkes, 2002). Through the TV, prisoners can follow ‘world affairs’ (Heinz, 3.5.2016), politics and sport events (Darko, 6.5.2016). They can gather scientific knowledge (Heinz, 3.5.2016) and participate in the outside world—‘at least indirectly’ (Rolf, 6.5.2016)—or simply ‘encounter daily life’ and ‘be informed about trends’ (Jonathan, 2.5.2016).

In addition, numerous prisoners I met subscribed to a daily newspaper, often one from their region of origin. One case that stands out in terms of the duration of this form of connectedness involves Hans, who has been in prison for several decades and who has subscribed to a local newspaper from his home region since 1958. Through this particular newspaper, he keeps informed and connected to his original community:

If there is something in the newspaper … I know every corner of the houses there, from childhood on, when [I read that] someone died, I jerk immediately. Every now and then I call someone from there and they greet the other people, and then a greeting comes back sometimes. (Hans, 4.6.2013)

However, it was also through this newspaper that he had to learn about the death of his own grandmother—which at the same time exemplifies his disconnectedness or social exclusion from the community.

More generally, the connection to the outside world through media is furthermore a corporal experience that provokes emotions and reflection. During fieldwork, several prisoners mentioned reports they had seen on issues related to wars, refugees or climate change and described being moved by these events and topics. Through audio-visual media, prisoners are also reminded of their pre-prison lives and lost futures (see also Jewkes, 2002, p. 91). Some reported sadness and a sense of nostalgia when they watch documentaries of places with which they are familiar or see people doing activities they cannot do anymore. Others mentioned events that they will never be able to experience at all, such as starting a family. Watching a particular TV show or a documentary film can also bring back memories of happier times and thus evoke good feelings. Finally, the TV can be used as a tool to immerse oneself into another person’s reality and fantasy worlds.

Whenever I see beautiful landscapes [on TV] from Switzerland, or other places where I’ve been to in my life – I’ve been to many places around the world – then it’s always double-edged: it makes me sad, you know, there are only pixels (laughs), and these are just spots of colours on the posters, you cannot jump into this lake, or walk through the forest, or across the meadow. Sure, the TV helps to distract, but I always have to be careful that I don’t watch things that remind me too much … of what I miss (laughs). These are illusionary worlds, with which you can completely get involved, being aware that this is now an illusionary world, then I also temporarily do live in this illusory world. (Rolf, 6.5.2016)

The only thing I always like to watch are fairy tale films. […] I’ve been watching them since childhood, until today. Every Sunday there are fairy tales at KiKa [Kinderkanal]. I like to watch these. I don’t know why, it is unconscious, or I don’t know, or because there is always a happy ending, and everything is wonderful. (Jonathan, 2.5.2016)

Transcending the prison context can also be realized more actively, for instance by playing (offline) computer games, especially those involving role-play, which allows prisoners to slip into another personality in another time–space constellation. One game that is highly appreciated is called ‘The Sims’, which, according to its official website, is a ‘life simulation game’ that allows users ‘to play with life’ by giving them the ‘power to create and control people’ (Electronic Arts, 2018). In the following extract of an interview, David talks about the characters and the everyday lives he has created through ‘The Sims’:

His name is Albert, and she is called Sumi. She is his wife, and she’s a little bit smarter than him. He’s a bit of a phlegmatic guy. She enjoys reading; most of the time she sits in the living room in a corner somewhere while reading a book. He then usually sits in the garden […] or he is playing with the children instead of studying, reading books and stuff. Well, I was thinking, no, now it’s your turn to make a career. And now I will try to place him at the Science Centre, so that he gets a job there. But he is not trained enough yet. I just found out that he has no higher degree. Now he has to catch up, so we’ll go to the public library, which is the next task, where we must find specific books together. Let’s see if he finds them. (David, 2.5.2016)

Another example comes from using the PlayStation:

I always feel tempted to escape into a virtual world (laughs) because the real world is just shit. And then I’m just much more interested in testing an exotic sports car in Hawaii, or playing a round of golf with Tiger Woods, or tennis with Federer (laughs). (Marco, 10.9.2013)

Related to this is daydreaming. While daydreaming can be described as a means of distraction (killing time) that allows prisoners to ‘temporarily [blot] out all sense of the environment’ (Goffman, 1961, p. 309), the prisoners I met depicted daydreaming not only as a means of escape but also as a lived experience outside of the institutional context. They often ‘do’ (active and specific) daydreaming about their previous lives. They recall nice memories and relive them. Thus, while in the cell, through their imagination, they are strongly connected to other time–spaces (see also Lussault & Stock, 2010, p. 17). This helps them not only to relax but also to keep alive their most precious memories and to retain a part of their former selves. However, this also provokes fears: one prisoner mentioned being scared of ‘not finding his way back’ or that memories of the past will fade over time (Fieldnotes, 17.2.2016).

Today, I helped Lars with his job in the workshop. We were talking about his experience of being in prison; he talked a lot, and I asked questions from time to time. […] He told me that he can ‘lose himself’ very easily in his thoughts, especially when something stresses him out, when he is plagued by fears. But he said that he was afraid to ‘get stuck’, to get ‘lost and not find his way back’. He has also experienced this with others, who according to him have completely lost ‘their relation to reality’. He doesn’t want that. For him, the prison is like ‘Twilight’: a ‘world of its own’. (Fieldnotes, 17.2.2016)

Others, such as Paul, explore unknown places in their imaginations and thereby envision particular situations while daydreaming:

Irene::

Are there places in the outside world of which you are sometimes thinking?

Paul::

I think a lot of the apartment of my girlfriend.

I::

Of her apartment?

P::

Yes, but I’ve never been there. She now lives in a new one, in the same village, but in a new apartment. […]

I::

Did she describe this apartment to you, or did you see a picture of it?

P::

No, I have no idea how this apartment looks. I just imagine me being there with her. How the apartment looks, I don’t know. I just imagine us being there, sitting together, eating, and lying in bed together, things like that. Being together with her. What I cannot do here. (Paul, 29.3.2016)

Paul also mentioned that he often thinks of the places where he committed his crimes, implicitly letting me know that he thereby also fantasizes about doing it again.

By transcending the here and now of the prison context—both passively and actively—while locked up in their cells, prisoners create time–spaces that let them gain experiences and emotions far from the prison context. The small prison cell then turns into a place that enables prisoners to gain freedom of movement through their wandering minds. This echoes Tuan, who argues that:

Freedom implies space; it means having the power and enough room in which to act. Being free has several levels of meaning. Fundamental is the ability to transcend the present condition, and this transcendence is most simply manifest as the elementary power to move. In the act of moving, space and its attributions are directly experienced. (Tuan, 2001 [1977], p. 52)

4.6 Conclusion

The focus of this chapter was the prison cell and the prisoners’ experiences of and within these 12m² (or even less) where they have to spend most of their time alone. The cell constitutes the place in prison where the prisoners’ personal attitudes towards their indeterminate confinement and self-perceptions as prisoners (or rather incarcerated human beings) are both fostered and expressed.

The prisoners’ assessments of the cell—in particular its materiality, namely its architecture, design and furnishings—are embedded in their self-perception as prisoners who have already served their sentences. As their narratives reveal, they wish for their status to be recognized through the provision of cells that are ‘less prison-like’, with more opportunities to personalize the space in order to feel less like a prisoner and more like a person living in this place. Interestingly, however, the way prisoners perceive the ambiance of the prison cell is not only linked to its materiality, but also to the prison environment (inside)—in particular its sound (often described as either too loud or too quiet) and the way they are treated by prison staff—as well as the prison’s surroundings (outside). All of this together influences prisoners’ sense of self and experience of their exclusion from the outside community.

Being in the cell, and more concretely the ability to furnish it, is further determined by the prison’s internal accommodation regime. Despite all the restrictions, the prisoners use, appropriate and (re)arrange the institutional spatio-temporal order that defines the prison cell through individual practices, and thereby ascribe new meanings to this place and create personal space. The prisoners’ ways of arranging the cell are shaped by their personal attitudes towards their uncertain future, or in other words, their modes of being with time: while those who try to accept imprisonment and concentrate on the present often transform it into a home, those who continue to hope and fight for their release generally want it to remain a simple place where they currently have to be, not a place where they want to make themselves comfortable. Yet, all the prisoners show attachment to this place as it is also a space of privacy and intimacy, which they, in one way or another, try to defend through a wide range of techniques.

Moreover, by creating their own rhythms during the many hours they are locked up in their cells alone, prisoners shape the experience of doing time according to their personal needs. As I have shown, the time span in the cell has many different meanings for the prisoners: some want it to be over as soon as possible and to notice as little of it as possible; others want to use their hours in the cell in a productive and self-reflective way. Still others use it as a gateway to gain experience in other, imaginary worlds—far from the prison context.

***

When the officers set out to unlock the cell doors at around 7 am, most of the prisoners have been awake for some time already. Some have used the early hours of the morning for praying, meditating, drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette, doing exercises or following their morning hygiene routine. Others have slept until they heard the sound of the approaching officers or, in one prison, the prison bell at 6.45 am. What happens after the doors are unlocked is the subject of the next chapter.