At Work

Abstract

This chapter is dedicated to prisoners’ experiences at work. It begins with a description of the legal and institutional framework of work in Swiss prisons. It then explores prisoners’ experiences of various working contexts and how work affects their corporal and spatial experience of imprisonment. After that, the chapter sheds light on prisoners’ various temporal experiences at work and the ways they rearrange institutionally established work rhythms according to their individual needs. Finally, it presents the experience of being a worker and how this affects prisoners’ sense of self. It argues that work signifies a potential and important social space where prisoners search for recognition, which they may experience through the valorization of their individual skills and competences and the attribution of trustworthiness.

After breakfast—which prisoners eat either in the cell (as in the Strafanstalt at JVA Lenzburg and JVA Pöschwies) or in the common kitchen (in the 60plus unit)—at around 7.30 am, prisoners who are physically able have to go to work. When I asked Clément what an ordinary day looks like for him, he morosely responded: ‘cell, working, cell, working, cell’ (Clément, 24.3.2016). Of course (and he would certainly agree), there is in fact much more going on between these two phases of the prison day. However, it is true that besides the cell, prisoners spend most of their time at the workplace, which is the focus of this chapter.

As demonstrated by Méda and Vendramin (2017, p. 7), since antiquity work has gradually increased in importance, and today it occupies a central place in contemporary ‘Western societies’, which can be defined as ‘work-based’. The authors identify three different layers of contradicting and co-existing meanings on which our ‘modern’ concept of work is based (Méda & Vendramin, 2017, pp. 16–22): (1) work as a factor for production, producing a nation’s wealth and allowing individuals a means to earn a living; (2) work as the essence of the human, a creative activity that allows individuals to find meaning, self-fulfilment and self-realization by transforming the world; and (3) work as a system for the distribution of income, rights and welfare and hence a key factor in social integration. In sum, work has gradually become ‘our essence at the same time as our condition’ (Méda, 1995, p. 18, my translation). It can therefore be defined as an anthropological category, or, in Mauss’ (1966) terms, ‘a total social fact’. Today, as further pointed out by Méda and Vendramin (2017, p. 223)—despite changes in the labour market and working conditions (which can also be damaging), as well as the emergence of ‘new personal values’, such as self-expression, which are all linked to the spread of the neoliberal paradigm since the end of the twentieth century—these meanings continue to co-exist and shape individuals’ understandings and expectations of work.

Against this background, it is not surprising that work has historically been ‘a core feature of imprisonment’, oscillating between productive and commercialized forms of industry and rehabilitative strategies (Matthews, 2009, p. 41).¹ More concretely, on the one hand, within the prison, work provides goods and is a source of revenue. It is also a means to structure and control daily life in prison and to keep prisoners busy. On the other hand, it also institutes work discipline among prisoners, especially those who ‘failed’ in the labour market in the outside world, and provides training to prepare them for release and successful reintegration into society.

Generally, however, due to a prison’s organizational and architectural structures, which are not designed for large-scale production, as well as prisoners’ generally low skill and education levels and their continuous turnover, the prison’s productive capacity has always been limited—regarding both the quantity and quality of goods (Matthews, 2009, p. 43). Given this situation, Matthews (2009, p. 43) describes the prison’s production and manufacturing as ‘likely to be inefficient and in many respects […] “primitive” and “pre-capitalist”’. Therefore, prison scholars generally agree that ‘working in prison involves experiencing work in a way that is not found outside prison walls’ (Guilbaud, 2010, p. 64). Given the working conditions—usually characterized by monotony and repetition (Matthews, 2009, p. 43), where there is either ‘too much work or too little’ (Goffman, 1961, p. 11), a lack of financial incentive (Matthews, 2009, p. 43) and a lack of control over and impact on the way (prisoners’) labour power is used (Guilbaud, 2010, p. 64)—it seems that work provides few ‘intrinsic interests’ for the prisoners, and the concept of ‘job satisfaction’ as used in the outside world is fairly alien in this particular context (see also Matthews, 2009, p. 43).

Yet, there are numerous ethnographic studies that reveal that work nonetheless holds some important meanings in prisoners’ lives. For example, several authors have illustrated how work helps prisoners ease the ‘pains of imprisonment’, especially the ‘deprivation of liberty’ (Sykes, 1971 [1958]), as work enables them to be out of the narrow (and in many countries and facilities overcrowded) space of the prison cell, to vanquish boredom and to pass time more easily (see e.g. Guilbaud, 2010; Milhaud, 2009). Furthermore, it has also been argued that work allows prisoners to reconnect with the outside, ‘normal’ world. First, through work, prisoners can create the common split between ‘private life’ and’work life’—spatially as well as temporally—and ‘to enjoy’ some ‘free time’, which is only possible when having ‘the (opposite) experience of time constraint’ that is typically associated with work (Guilbaud, 2010, p. 57). Second, as pointed out for instance by Chassagne (2017), work provides prisoners with a framework for expressing and being perceived according to an ‘identity’ other than the one related to their crime. For some prisoners, this particular activity—work—is crucial for the maintenance of their ‘individual identity’ (Chassagne, 2017, p. 9) as it enables them to reconnect with their past lives by mobilizing their previous (work) experiences and the values they attribute to work, such as the feeling of being ‘useful’ (Chassagne, 2017, p. 9). In a similar way, Guilbaud (2010, p. 59) outlines how through work, prisoners may ‘recover a status they have been deprived of’. Hence, work in prison ensures continuity between the inside and the outside world and weakens the discrepancy between the prisoners’ present and past lives. Therefore, despite all the ‘demoralizing’ (Goffman, 1961, p. 11) effects prison work may have on prisoners, it is nevertheless ‘undeniably a resource that inmates use to cope with the depersonalization and dependence engendered by confinement’ (Guilbaud, 2010, p. 59).

While these ethnographic studies have analysed the meaning of work in prison by highlighting the related functions and values work provides for the prisoners in dealing with the deprivations they face, I propose in this chapter to use a slightly different analytical lens. Here, I explore work in prison by more closely examining prisoners’ lived experience during this particular part of the day, and how the experience of work shapes their general experience of imprisonment as well as their sense of self.

The chapter begins with a description of the legal and institutional framework regarding the function and conditions of work in Swiss prisons and provides an overview of the working possibilities and conditions in the prisons where I conducted fieldwork in order to offer some context. Then, I explore the prisoners’ spatial, temporal and embodied experiences of and during this portion of the day. I first show how being at the workplace and therefore being (physically) out of the cell concretely looks, and how this shapes the prisoners’ corporal and spatial experiences of imprisonment. After that, I outline the prisoners’ experience of work in terms of time. While the literature describes work above all as a preferred means to pass time, it also notes that prison work is generally monotonous and repetitive (see e.g. Matthews, 2009). However, the ways in which prisoners experience and deal with this latter aspect are less researched. By exploring the prisoners’ various temporal experiences at work, I show that repetition and monotony is not per se a burden and may even be of value for certain prisoners. Those who suffer through it also find ways to rearrange the institutionally established work rhythms according to their individual needs. The last section is devoted to the prisoners’ experiences as ‘workers’. As I show, work signifies above all an important potential social space where prisoners seek and may also receive recognition, which is of particular existential importance for these prisoners, constructed as ‘absolute others’ (Greer & Jewkes, 2005) and most probably permanently excluded from society—physically, socially and morally.

5.1 Work in Swiss Prisons

As with any part of the prison day that is formally organized by the prison, work is shaped by the penal system’s institutional logics of punishment (including safety and security) and rehabilitation (including care and the ‘normalisation’ of living conditions) (see Sect. 3.1.1).

As stated by the Federal Department of Justice and Police, ‘[i]n view of the basic importance of having a job to any citizen’s social integration, work is one of the mainstays of the penal system’ (Federal Department of Justice & Police FDJP, 2010, p. 11). Therefore, according to Art. 81 para 1 SCC, ‘[t]he prison inmate is obliged to work’. While until the mid-twentieth century, prison work in Switzerland was basically characterized by forced labour and driven by economic interests, today it is mainly considered to fulfil ‘special preventive objectives’ (Baechtold et al., 2016, p. 162). This refers not only to prisoners’ rehabilitation, but also to the maintenance of order and discipline inside the prison and the prevention of mental and physical disorders that can be caused by imprisonment. Given these objectives, according to the law, ‘wherever possible, the work should be appropriate to [the prisoner’s] skills, education and training, and his interests’ (Art. 81 para. 1 SCC). If possible, prisoners shall also be given the opportunity to complete basic and advanced training, again appropriate to their skills (Art. 82 SCC). The idea of work as both a key factor for social integration and an activity that enables the expression of individuality (see introductory part of this chapter)—although the preservation of individual integrity is in the foreground—is therefore also embedded in the Swiss penal system, linked to the principle of rehabilitation. Yet, this principle is overlapped by the principle of punishment, as work is also a means of installing discipline, order and security within the prison.

Furthermore, as in the outside world, work in prison constitutes a means of earning money, as every working prisoner obtains a wage for his or her work. However, their wage level does ‘not correspond to the market rate’ (Federal Department of Justice & Police FDJP, 2010, pp. 11–12). Following Art. 380 SCC, every prisoner has to contribute to the costs of their imprisonment, and he or she does so through the ‘unpaid part’ of the wage for the work carried out in prison. Moreover, the prisoners may dispose of only part of their paid wages during imprisonment. The remaining portion is withheld for the time after release (Art. 83 para. 2 SCC). As stated by Baechtoldet al. (2016, pp. 168–169), since the introduction of the SCC in 1942, prison wages have mainly served preventive-rehabilitative objectives. In the beginning, the wage was calculated by considering the prisoners’ productivity as well as their general behaviour in prison. Since the revision of the SCC in 2007, the prisoners’ general behaviour, such as the tidiness of their cells, is no longer decisive. Today, wage calculations must consider a prisoner’s performance and circumstances (Art. 83 para 1. SCC)—that is, the equipment of the individual workplaces, but also a prisoner’s real performance capacity (Baechtold et al., 2016, p. 169). According to cantonal guidelines, the average wage in Swiss prisons has been determined as 26 Swiss francs per day, with 35 Swiss francs as the maximum (Baechtold et al., 2016, p. 170). These norms and guidelines also apply to prisoners held in indefinite incarceration. For prisoners spending the rest of their lives in prison as well as those serving regular sentences it is therefore impossible to make a ‘career’ in a conventional sense: they are not able (or only on a very limited basis) to make a fortune, nor to be promoted. Although they accumulate a certain amount over the years, prisoners are not allowed to spend it, because it is reserved for an unforeseeable ‘later’. Yet, as I show further below, earning money is only one—and, as I argue, for most of the prisoners I met certainly not the most important—advantage they gain through work.

The work opportunities for prisoners in the Strafanstalt at JVA Lenzburg include jobs in workshops in which they produce items for external customers (bindery/cardboard packaging, printing, basketry/braiding, painting, industrial assembly, locksmithing and carpentry) as well as jobs related to the prison’s internal operation. These include jobs related to the upkeep (cleaning, laundry service, ironing and sewing services) and maintenance (technical and construction services) of the prison, the food service (kitchen, bakery, yoghurt production, vegetable gardening) and the prison library. In the two units for ill and elderly prisoners, the offer of work is supposed to serve primarily as an ‘occupation’ that helps prisoners structure their days. In the 60plus unit at JVA Lenzburg, this includes basic assembly work for external customers. However, during fieldwork there were days without work for the prisoners (e.g. due to a lack of external orders). The prisoners in the AGE at JVA Pöschwies can engage in handicraft work, making items for sale in the prison shop, as well as in productive work for external orders. Those prisoners who are physically or mentally unable to complete any of these work tasks have to carry out domestic work (such as cleaning their cells) and take care of their personal hygiene during official working hours. Both special units offer a few jobs in upkeep and maintenance services. During fieldwork in these two units, I noticed that foremen also create special jobs for certain prisoners, such as rolling cigarettes that will be sold to prisoners or watering plants in the unit. I also came across what might be called ‘fake jobs’, occupations that only seem to be productive work. For instance, one prisoner, due to mental health issues, was not capable of participating in any kind of productive work but nevertheless asked for a job. He was given toothbrushes to wrap up and told that they would be distributed to the prisoners. However, each day after he finished, they were unpacked by the staff (of course without the prisoner’s knowledge) and given back to him the next day to wrap again. As I show in greater detail below, depending on the specific workplace (carpentry, technical service, etc.), prisoners may either be physically bound to a workshop or allowed to move around more freely (i.e. more independently and less directly monitored by prison staff) within an area of the prison or even the whole building, which strongly shapes their corporal and spatial experience of imprisonment.

As in every prison, although it is prohibited, some informal business was conducted during my fieldwork. For example, I met a prisoner who granted credit to fellow prisoners (those who could not repay it had to settle their debt with commodities, such as sneakers or electronic devices) and another who offered support in writing formal correspondence, such as administrative appeals, and who sold self-made gift cards. As I was told, with enough money, ‘in principle, you can get everything in prison that is available in the outside world’ (Heinz, 3.5.2916). Examples mentioned to me include mobile phones, USB sticks, alcohol and drugs. However, as this kind of business is not the focus of this chapter, I will not go into the matter in any further detail.

Prisoners who work full-time work approximately seven hours per day. Due to health issues, many prisoners in the special units for ill and elderly prisoners work part-time only. Furthermore, because of the ascribed rehabilitative and integrative value of prison work, which has been confirmed by the Federal Supreme Court, retirement age is not a recognized category in the prison system. Instead, prisoners are formally obliged to work as long as they are capable (Baechtold et al., 2016, p. 162).

In addition to the legal and institutional norms and rules, foremen play a crucial role in framing the prisoners’ experience at work. They distribute the workload, tasks and responsibilities among the prisoners, supervise and monitor their activities, and calculate their wage level. In addition, they are responsible for running the workshop and ensuring the quality of fabricated products (Isenhardt et al., 2014, p. 28). Given their obligation to contribute to the prisoners’ rehabilitation and to instil and maintain order and discipline, they also have the authority and power to act in response to the prisoners’ behaviour at work. For instance, they are supposed to sanction what they consider to be ‘inappropriate’ behaviour in the workplace by sending the prisoner back to his cell for a day or more and/or reducing the monthly remuneration amount. Furthermore, when calculating the prisoners’ wage level, at JVA Lenzburg the foremen have to take into account not only the prisoners’ productivity (quantity and quality of work), but also their behaviour at the workplace and their degree of ‘reliability’, ‘work interest’ and ‘commitment’ (JVA Lenzburg, 1995, my translation), by classifying the prisoners on a scale ranging from 1 to 11. A prisoner who ‘attracts no attention’, ‘works without any discussion’ and displays ‘neutral behaviour’ is considered to show a ‘normal performance’—classified as 7 (JVA Lenzburg, 1995, my translation). Someone whose performance is outstanding (meriting an 11) ‘is stimulating, motivates other prisoners to work, actively supports the orders of the foreman’ and ‘shows initiative, is important to the industry, for which he shows an outstanding interest’ (JVA Lenzburg, 1995, my translation). Someone who receives a 1 is ‘difficult to guide’, ‘unreliable, indifferent, [and] indolent’ (JVA Lenzburg, 1995, my translation). I argue that through these instruments—that is, the sanctioning of ‘inappropriate’ behaviour in the workplace and the wage system—the prison, and more concretely the foremen, not only introduce a particular work discipline but also (re)produce morally charged ideas of ‘normalcy’ and ‘deviation’, and hence what defines a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ worker or prisoner, respectively.

However, the rehabilitative (and thus to some degree the disciplinary) aspect of work is practically irrelevant in the case of prisoners sentenced to indefinite incarceration. Yet, apart from the special units for ill and elderly prisoners, where the significance of work has been shifted from ‘production’ to ‘occupation’ in order to provide prisoners with a daily structure and social contacts, the foremen have no special orders to follow regarding this particular prison population.

Consequently, the way foremen manage these prisoners and frame the hours they spend in their workshop depends on each foreman’s personal values and interests. For those who focus on the rehabilitative aspect of their job, handling these prisoners can be frustrating, as there is no future goal towards which they can orient them: ‘Whatever I teach him, he [the prisoner sentenced to indefinite incarceration] will probably never be able to use it elsewhere’ (Foreman A., 27.6.2016). The function of work is thus limited to life inside the prison. Among the foremen I talked to, a few described their role as simply ‘keeping prisoners busy’ (Foreman E., 21.11.2013) and providing them with ‘a daily structure, linked to meaningful work’ (Foreman B., 27.6.2016).

Most of the foremen, however, told me they were interested in finding different ways to deal with these prisoners, taking into consideration that they might stay in prison for the rest of their lives. This may include providing these prisoners explicitly with ‘variety’, the ‘possibility of choice’ (Foremen F., 18.11.2013), ‘as much responsibility as possible’, the ‘feeling of success’ (e.g. by reporting on customer satisfaction) (Foreman D., 22.10.2013) or the feeling of ‘still being of value’ as a ‘human person’ (Foreman A., 27.6.2016). Therefore, although they officially have no specific mandate, the foremen find themselves informally testing and initiating new practices when dealing with these prisoners. Yet, some of them mentioned feeling constrained and frustrated by the lack of institutional support and additional resources (e.g. additional, differently trained staff) that would be necessary to handle these prisoners appropriately, not only in order to provide them with extra support, but also to manage the day-to-day business, as some of these prisoners—due to their personal skills and capacities—need extraordinary individual treatment and attention at work.

In addition, many of the foremen noted their awareness that they may become the most important (and maybe even only) reference person for long-term prisoners held in indefinite incarceration, not least because they are generally the ones who spend the most time with these prisoners (see also Baumeister & Keller, 2011). Therefore, they are often assigned to, or simply take up, various roles vis-à-vis these prisoners:

You are actually … from the father figure to the boss to … yes, just a supervisor, sometimes also a social assistant. You have many different functions. Sometimes you are a bit of a doctor as well because you have to help them with a small wound or something. Yes, you actually have many more functions [than just that of the foreman]. (Foreman A., 27.6.2016)

In sum, the foremen play a crucial role in the lives of the prisoners, as most of them, informally and based on their own personal values and motivations, consider prisoners’ specific life situations and try to grant them more individuality at work. This is crucial for these prisoners, as I explore further below.

5.2 Physical and Mental (Im)mobility

As noted earlier, prison work is generally conceived by the prisoners as a means of getting out of the cell and having more freedom of movement (Milhaud, 2009). As summarized by Guilbaud, ‘[m]ost of them experience time spent working as a source of spatial and temporal release; it allows them to get out of their narrow, overpopulated cells for six hours a day and to work off some physical energy’ (2010, p. 55). While many prisoners would agree with this statement, the need to be outside the cell is less pronounced in the case of the long-term prisoners to whom I spoke, especially for the elderly, who are less mobile due to their health status. This may also result from the fact that in the prisons where I did fieldwork prisoners are all housed in single cells, which for many of them has become over time their favourite place in prison—the one place where they can find peace and quiet (see Chapter 4). Nevertheless, being outside the cell or at the workplace does have meaning for the prisoners and strongly shapes their experience of imprisonment.

Prisoners who work in one of the workshops, doing carpentry or industrial assembly, for example, are usually physically bound to a single place. They spend their work hours mainly sitting or standing, more or less in the same place, while operating a machine, for instance. However, only a few prisoners commented on this issue. Those who did usually complained about it: ‘You sit […] in a chair or at a desk all day long and that’s it’ (Hugo, 7.9.2017). In the workshops, prisoners are hence considerably physically immobile. Moreover, the workshops are surveilled by one or two foremen who usually act simultaneously as production managers and co-workers. According to internal rules, prisoners are not allowed to leave the workplace without authorization (JVA Lenzburg, 2011, p. 37). As mentioned above, based on their personal values and interests, the foremen strongly shape the working conditions and instal a particular work discipline. Serge explained the conditions in the workshop as follows: ‘In the workshop, there I sit at a table, one is not allowed to talk, that is strictly forbidden actually, and then one carries out very monotonous work’ (Serge, 25.9.2013). Therefore, although work allows prisoners to leave the small and narrow prison cell, some find themselves highly immobile and corporally inactive with little variety in this place. Their spatial experience at work is therefore reduced to space at its smallest scale.

In contrast, prisoners who work in housekeeping and maintenance services are highly mobile, not only physically but also mentally, as they are generally granted more autonomy and self-determination than the prisoners assigned to the workshops. They usually have to fulfil tasks throughout the prison building, including places generally only accessible to prison staff (e.g. the staff cafeteria or cloakroom). Moreover, they are less directly monitored by staff, they largely work alone and independently and can more freely define the rhythm of their workday. As argued by Milhaud (2009, p. 307, my translation), having a job that allows for circulation around the prison—and therefore greater knowledge of the different prison areas—and for building relations with other working prisoners enriches the prisoners’ ‘geographical experience of the prison’ and, hence, compensates for the deprivations they face. Indeed, prisoners who were at the time of my interviews working in housekeeping and maintenance services emphasized that being physically mobile and less surveilled by staff provides them with a sense of being free—or at least less imprisoned. This echoes Tuan’s argument that ‘freedom implies space’ (2001 [1977], p. 52). However, while Tuan (2001 [1977], p. 52) considers prisoners (as well as the bedridden) as intrinsically ‘unfree’, living in a ‘constricted space’ because they are unable or have lost the ability to move freely, I argue that the sense of being free or unfree, respectively, remains a subjective, situational and relational experience. Compared to prisoners who ‘sit in a chair all day’ carrying out ‘very monotonous work’, prisoners working in the housekeeping and maintenance services and hence circulating all around the prison feel (and indeed are) freer:

In the [workshop], I was in the same room for three years, 120 m², I was doing different jobs, working with different people, and had two good foremen, but working in the construction service [today], being able to move around freely, that makes a big difference, that’s a big change. And this is something that is very important to me personally, the possibility of additional freedom in captivity. (Markus, 28.9.2017)

Irene::

Where do you feel the least imprisoned, or when?

Erwin::

When I’m working, when I’m doing something, then I’m almost everywhere [within the prison building].

I::

So feeling less imprisoned means for you being able to move?

E::

Yes. (Erwin, 18.10.2017)

I argue that being allowed to circulate around the prison during work not only enriches the prisoners’ ‘geographical experience’ of the prison but also shapes their general ‘sense of space’ (Tuan, 2001 [1977]) and hence their personal representation of the prison. I became particularly aware of this as the prisoners showed me their workplaces during the walking interviews. This enabled me to explore in situ their perception of the physical environment of the prison, ‘filtered’ (Kusenbach, 2003) through their experiences and practices as workers. For instance, while showing me his various workplaces, Markus, who worked at that time in the construction service, primarily talked about ‘walls’—walls he had to ‘grind’, walls he had to ‘smooth’ or ‘plaster’, walls he had to ‘paint’. He talked about ‘scaffolds’ he had to instal on walls and showed me the ‘rotting masonry’ (Markus, 28.9.2016), which was (at least the rotted aspect) invisible to me, and other ‘weak points’ regarding the building’s materiality, which he was able to witness from his professional viewpoint (see Fig. 5.1).

Fig. 5.1

(Source Photo by a prisoner)

Scaffolds installed on the prison grounds

While I was walking around with Erwin, who was working in the housekeeping (cleaning) service, I was again offered another picture of the prison. ‘His’ prison consists of many ‘corridors’ as his main task was to clean them throughout the entire building (illustrated in Fig. 5.2).

Fig. 5.2

(Source Photos by a prisoner)

Prison corridors

Prisoners who circulate throughout the prison during work generally also have access to spaces of authority—that is, places that are usually only accessible to staff, such as the staff canteen. This not only enriches their geographical experience of the prison and sense of space but greatly impacts their sense of self, as having access to these places is an explicit expression of trust by the prison management (the issue of trust will be discussed in detail in Sect. 5.5.2). Yet, although they are highly mobile during work, their workplace consists of spaces of transit as the prisoners are forced to be mobile, or unfree to stay in one place as long as they wish.

5.3 ‘Less Prison-Like’ Spaces

In addition to the degree of mobility prisoners are granted, being at the workplace also means having access to places that are less obviously marked by the carceral. First, this applies to their spatial characteristics, such as the material equipment and decoration in the workshops and work areas (see also Guilbaud, 2010) (illustrated in Figs. 5.3 and 5.4). At first sight, the prison workshops look quite similar to workshops in the outside world. This was a detail mentioned by the prisoners as well. For instance, during our walking interview, Markus was eager to take a picture of the depot of the construction service, because, according to him, ‘it doesn’t look like prison’. It reminds him of a depot in the outside world, which, he added, fills him ‘with pleasure’ (Markus, 28.9.2017).

Fig. 5.3

(Source Photo by a prisoner)

A prisoner’s workplace or a space ‘not looking like prison’

Fig. 5.4

(Source Photo by a prisoner)

In the prison’s printing plant

Many machines and tools in the prisoners’ workplaces are the same as those in the outside world.

During our walking interview, Erwin showed me the equipment (machines, cleaning products) he must use for cleaning work, emphasizing his familiarity with it as he had his own cleaning company in the outside world (see Fig. 5.5). Hence, his experience of his particular work situation is also shaped by his memories of working in the outside world.

Fig. 5.5

(Source Photo by a prisoner)

Working with ‘familiar equipment’

However, some tools have been adjusted by the management to address the prison’s security concerns. For instance, as emphasized by Rolf, who is supposed to work with pieces of wood, some saw blades are ‘totally dull (laughs), no carpenter would work with that for a second’ (11.9.2013). This, I argue, may transform a workshop clearly and immediately into a highly constrained space (see also Sect. 5.5).

In addition to the materiality of the workplaces, their less prison-like character also emerges from the fact that the workshops can generally be understood as particular social spaces where social relations are ‘likely to develop on the basis of other values’ (Le Caisne, 2004, p. 531, cited in Guilbaud, 2010, p. 44). Hence, the often-proclaimed antagonism between staff and prisoners (Goffman, 1961) as well as hierarchies among prisoners (Clemmer, 1958 [1940]; Sykes, 1971 [1958]) may be neutralized or temporarily drift into the background. For instance, as illustrated by Guilbaud (2010, p. 44), the workplace may be the only place in prison where prisoners (may be allowed to) shake hands. Similar to the sports context, as came out in my interviews, the crucial relationship in the work context is not that with one’s fellow prisoners but that with prison staff. Although I was also told the opposite, many prisoners expressed appreciation for their foreman or forewoman. For many prisoners, he or she constitutes an important reference person whose significance often goes beyond the work relationship. Several prisoners told me that they seek out their foreman to receive practical advice and support concerning their life in prison in general. For example, one prisoner told me that he had received support (i.e. the required material) from his foreman in order to realize his desire to start painting as a hobby. Another mentioned that from time to time his foreman provides him with the latest technical literature so that he can keep up to date in the professional domain in which he has been trained. Certain prisoners also mentioned that they discuss personal issues with their foremen and seek emotional feedback. The various roles the foremen may play in prisoners’ lives were also mentioned by the foremen themselves who, during the interviews, expressed their awareness of the situation and their willingness to use their authority in such a way that they are more than a ‘simple boss’ to these long-term prisoners (see also Sect. 5.1).

When I feel bad I can talk to [the foreman]. I have such a relationship with him that I can also speak about private issues. […] [I feel] a sense of humanity [from his side], also an interest in the person he is talking to … One can see it very quickly when I feel bad, or if something oppresses me, I don’t say anything, but somehow one can see it. And then he, [the foreman], he always looks at me and asks: ‘What is it?’. And I say: ‘Nothing, everything is all right’, and he: ‘No, something is wrong’. And I think that’s great, I mean you cannot ask for it in here, because … yes. That’s why I appreciate that very much. (Leo, 31.8.2017)

In the foremen’s office: Patrick passed several times to see his forewoman, he wanted to know if he was doing his job alright (he was creating gift cards out of paper). She praised him but showed him at the same time how to do it better. She emphasized several times that what was produced in this workshop was ‘no bricolage’ but ‘professionally produced cards’, which ‘should be recognisable’. While watching how she tried to enhance the quality of the card he was working on, Patrick told her that he is about to participate again in group therapy and therefore soon will go on prison leave. The forewoman replied that this is very good news and that she is happy for him, but also wanted to know from him why he hadn’t joined the therapy group earlier. Patrick didn’t answer. He then went back to his workplace where I joined him. He prepared a space to work for me and showed me how to create cards: just ‘professional, high quality cards’, ‘no bricolage’ he repeated the forewoman’s words. I cut out flowers for him. He wet his finger with his tongue and stuck the flowers on the cards – including his fingerprint … (Fieldnotes, 11.4.2016)

As the extract from my fieldnotes above suggests, the foremen and forewomen are clearly also important in terms of prisoners’ identities as workers, which is addressed more fully in Sect. 5.5.

Finally, for some prisoners, the workshop is also a place that allows them to come into direct contact with people from the outside world. In one case, a prisoner had the opportunity to spend some time working together with several workmen from the outside world, during renovation work in the prison. Although he was working very hard physically, he described this particular moment as ‘pure recreation and holiday’ (Markus, 29.3.2016) as it made him forget that he was in prison. As he further explained, for a certain period of time, they jointly carried out hard work, facing each other, above all, as professionals or co-workers. Hence, through interaction with external workers who gave him the feeling of being of equal value, Markus experienced a situation where the carceral sensation declined:

I also enjoyed working on this construction site, […] even if it was really very hard work […] it was nice. […] That has been an enormous change for me. Something the others [fellow prisoners] don’t have. They have no contact with these workers. And I mean they [the workers] were electricians, plumbers – the same people I worked with in the outside world. […] They were always very decent to me, and they have not, no one was condescending, of course there were questions like: How is life in here? or: We heard that … and stuff. So I said: It’s not as terrible as you imagine. […] One has the feeling that people from the outside have a lot of respect. […] And there were moments, from time to time, just when I was having a conversation with someone, while working together, that I really forgot that I’m locked up. And those moments were worth gold. This is pure recreation and holiday. When you can just forget for a moment where you are. Not by drifting away mentally, or daydreaming, but during work, during action, and then just forgetting it for a moment. These are moments that I really enjoy. (Markus, 29.3.2016)

Rolf told me about the time he used to work in the prison’s garage, where he was directly connected to the outside world as people brought in their malfunctioning cars. As he explained, this job allowed him to experience some kind of ‘normalcy’:

In the garage it was really nice […] The garage is one of those places in here where you feel the least in prison, it’s always open and … of course it’s behind a wall and all that, but cars are coming and going, you do the service and other things for the cars people bring from outside. Yes, you have a lot of normalcy there. (Rolf, 11.9.2013)

I argue that Rolf’s feeling of ‘normalcy’ results from the permeability of the prison, which enabled him to have direct contact with people and objects (cars) from the outside world, but probably also from the fact that he was of direct ‘use’ to people in the outside community and therefore in some way still part of it. This echoes Guilbaud’s argument that ‘[t]hough they have been removed from social life by a judicial decision, they are nonetheless “organically” linked to society by way of their productive labour’ (2010, p. 42).

5.4 Repetition and Monotony

In the literature, work in prison is not only regarded as an opportunity for prisoners to leave the cell but also a preferred means to make doing time easier (Guilbaud, 2010; Milhaud, 2009). Indeed, many prisoners I spoke to agreed with this statement, because during work, one is ‘occupied’ and has ‘something to do’ (Jonathan, 24.9.2013). Thomas identified this as the only benefit of prison labour. As he mentioned, time ‘passes better’ during work (Thomas, 11.6.2013), which for him was also related to the smoking ban. While he structured his time in the cell into 15-minute segments based on his desire to smoke—which at the same time increased his awareness of the passage of time—due to the smoking ban, the rhythm at work could not be rearranged in the same way. This shaped his experience of time as it weakened his awareness of its passage:

In here I just try to make it through the day, if possible by working, then at least time goes a bit faster. But this is the only reason, it’s not because I’m an enthusiastic worker, but just because time passes better, that’s all. And then you don’t constantly think, every 15 minutes, that it would be time for a cigarette. Because smoking is not allowed down there [in the workshop]. (Thomas, 11.6.2013)

As mentioned by François, working and therefore being occupied ‘breaks up the monotony’ that prevails in his everyday life. This is especially linked to the possibility of having social interactions at work:

Yes, work is an occupation that also brings some change in everyday life, and that is something very, very important for me to have an occupation. I cannot imagine now, these six years, a little bit more than six years that I’ve been in prison now, that I could have done it without working, without any occupation. […] It’s the change, that you work together with other people, this breaks up the monotony that otherwise prevails in prison. (François, 23.11.2013)

Yet, in the prison literature, prison work is also described as monotonous and thus as having demoralizing effects on the prisoners (Goffman1961; Matthews, 2009). As I show in the following, a closer look at the prisoners’ lived experiences reveals their manifold ways of experiencing and dealing with repetition and monotony.

During fieldwork, I met prisoners—such as Jonathan, who was felting red hearts to be used as key rings, and Clément, whose job was to unpack candles with production faults—who did not mind the repetitive and often simple character of their work. On the one hand, for them, monotonous work was synonymous with ‘easy work’, providing them with a clear structure and orientation. Being occupied without being personally challenged (intellectually or physically) allowed some prisoners to concentrate and to immerse themselves into the present and thereby get distracted from personal worries and daily troubles (see also Chassagne, 2017)—maybe even to ‘lose all sense of time’ (Hall, 1989 [1983], p. 137) and space:

During that time, I’m thinking of the work that I’m doing, nothing else. I think the work is not bad, I think it’s like work for disabled people, it’s not difficult work, it’s very easy work. (Jonathan, 24.9.2013)

On the other hand, carrying out repetitive work that does not require much thinking allows others ‘to let [their] thoughts wander’ (Clément, 26.9.2017) and therefore to transcend the present.

However, there are also prisoners for whom repetition and monotony have no value and who complained about the work they had been assigned by emphasizing the feeling of boredom. This was not only because of the job content—‘I’ve been here since March, now it’s September, since then it’s my turn to draw little stars on a board, using a template, and then cut them out. And I’ve been doing this for months now’. (Serge, 25.9.2013)—but also because of a general lack of variety and change at the workplace, which adds another layer to the overall repetitive nature of prison life:

I have a strict daily schedule [that starts] with the ring of an annoying bell that will drive me crazy one day. I’ve been working in the printing service for seven years now, always seeing more or less the same people. When I look outside [the window], it seems to me that freedom is hidden behind glass. I see certain situations in advance because they repeat themselves every day. (Letter from a prisoner, 27.6.2016)

In contrast to prisoners who benefit from monotonous work, which allows them to immerse themselves into or transcend the present, prisoners who suffer due to the working conditions feel, in the sense of Hall, ‘stuck in endless time’ (Hall, 1989 [1983], p. 132).

Hence, although work is a welcome change from being in the cell, and many prisoners named it as the most important resource for doing time, the workdays get long, and time passes slowly when the work generally provides prisoners with little variety, unforeseeable events or other personal benefits. Yet, as I show in the following section, prisoners also find individual ways to rearrange the institutionally installed working rhythms.

As I discovered, the prisoners developed various techniques or ways of ‘doing with’ (Lussault & Stock, 2010) time at work. They rearranged the institutionally imposed rhythm of the workday, characterized by repetition and monotony, by creating interruptions and changes during work hours and making use of their working spaces.

For instance, one technique is to try to arrange internal appointments, such as with the masseur (in one of the units for the ill and elderly), or phone calls during specific, individually defined moments during work. Another possibility is to participate in activities offered by the prison during work time, such as sports or school lessons. Other ways of creating change during work include engaging someone in a chat or stretching out the amount of time spent away from the workplace. For instance, after having received a visitor in the visitors’ room, prisoners mentioned that they walked back to the workshop ‘particularly slowly’ (Michael, 6.5.2016) (see also Sect. 6.3.1). Also, a few prisoners mentioned their view from the workshop, saying that from time to time, they look out of the window for a while, gaining further impressions: ‘Vans always drive through here, there is always something going on out there. And when I feel a bit depressed, then I stand here [at the window], for one, two minutes’ (Leo, 31.8.2017) (illustrated in Fig. 5.6).

Fig. 5.6

(Source Photo by a prisoner)

A glance out of the window: Watching the vans arriving from the outside world

Moreover, I witnessed one prisoner’s daily routine, which involved filling a bottle with water from the water dispenser located on the ground floor whereas his workplace was located in the basement. He usually did this only shortly after he had handed in his cell key to staff in the office in order to go to his workplace, passing by the water dispenser. As he told me that he was always keen for a distraction from work, I suspect that this interruption was carefully scheduled. The prospect of achieving distraction at work also became an issue when I arranged appointments for the interviews. While the prisoners preferred that I schedule the interviews during work hours, some foremen angrily identified this as a strategy to ‘shirk’ their responsibilities and insisted that the prisoners meet me during their leisure time (Fieldnotes, 2.5.2016). With all these techniques, along with the development of various attitudes and feelings towards the workday, prisoners can individually modify the flow of the work week:

Monday is difficult; it comes right after the weekend. But I go to school in the afternoon, which is very good. Tuesday we have sports, so we work less. Then I have a massage, from 1 to 2 pm. On Wednesday, we enjoy a half-day [in this section, Wednesday afternoons are free]. Thursday is the worst day: it’s the longest day; there’s nothing to do the whole day, just work. Then on Friday we are somehow all looking forward, because on Friday the weekend starts. (Jonathan, 2.5.2016)

5.5 Seeking Individuality and Social Belonging

In addition to the various spatial and temporal experiences that prisoners have at work, what specifically happens there also affects the prisoners’ sense of self. In the prison literature, working prisoners’ sense of self is often discussed by pointing out the possibility of reconnecting with their previous lives and status (see the introductory part of this chapter). In short, working is described as a means of breaking down the walls that separate their experiences on the inside from those in the outside world. This was certainly also the case for the prisoners I met during my fieldwork. However, I discovered that for long-term prisoners held in indefinite incarceration, in addition to the chance to reconnect themselves with their past (working) lives, the meanings they attributed to work are also strongly linked to their present (prison) lives. This is not surprising as many of them have been imprisoned for decades, and the prison has inevitably become the centre of their lives.

As my empirical material reveals, work signifies above all an important potential social space for prisoners to experience recognition. This is again not surprising because, as demonstrated by a wide range of studies, in our society recognition is primarily sought and demanded in the context of work. For instance, as demonstrated by Osty (2003), it is at work that we seek the experience of trust, respect and responsibility, the valorization of personal competences and abilities, and a sense of togetherness. As argued by Renault (2001), following the Hegelian tradition, being recognized and appreciated by both individuals and institutions is essential for the development of our ‘personal identity’, through which we constitute ourselves as both ‘a unique human being’ and ‘a member of the human species’ (Renault, 2001, p. 184, cited in Guéguen & Mallochet, 2012, p. 38, my translation). As I show in the following, for the long-term prisoners held in indefinite incarceration, recognition is not only decisive for the development of a positive relationship to themselves and others, but also of existential importance due to their permanent physical, social and moral exclusion from society. In the following sections, I explore two expressions of recognition that were experienced by the prisoners I talked to: first, the appreciation and valorization of their individual skills and competences, and second, the attribution of trustworthiness.

5.5.1 Being ‘an Expert’, ‘the Man for All Cases’

While it is prison management that allocates prisoners to particular workplaces (if possible by considering their personal skills and interests), as mentioned in Sect. 5.1 above, the foremen are in charge of the assignment of the specific tasks that the prisoners must carry out and the calculation of each prisoner’s monthly remuneration. The official instrument of the wage system, which I described as a powerful tool for imposing certain norms and values at the workplace, is also, at least at first glance, a means to express recognition (or not) vis-à-vis the prisoners, most directly in the form of so-called premiums that can be granted on a monthly basis to prisoners for an additional workload or extraordinary performance. By means of the wage system, the foremen evaluate each prisoner’s individual productivity and behaviour at the workplace and hence assign to him a certain value as a worker (through his performance and productive contribution) and status as a prisoner (in comparison to his fellow prisoners).

Interestingly, however, during the conversations I had with the prisoners, the wage level was rarely explicitly described as an indicator of recognition. It was rather discussed in terms of the living standard it allowed them to reach (or not) inside prison in relation to the comparatively high prices the prisoners had to pay for everyday products at the prison’s kiosk. Moreover, the prisoners’ wages, and more concretely the amount of money available to spend both inside and outside the prison (e.g. by ordering food or clothes), were also noted in comparison with short-term prisoners, who generally have more contact with the outside world and therefore more options for receiving (and spending) money. However, for most of the long-term prisoners I met, regarding the experience of recognition, far more important than the actual wage seems to be the way they are treated by their foremen. It is hence the ‘area of work relationships’ (Osty, 2003, my translation) that is crucial in this regard. More concretely, what provides prisoners with the feeling of recognition is not so much material but symbolic in nature.

As I was told, recognition is above all gained through the foremen’s situational face-to-face expressions of appreciation and respect and their (enduring) consideration and valorization of the prisoners’ individual skills, competences and work experience, which are often less related to their pre-prison lives than to the decades they have spent in prison. These experiences allow them to construct and perform their personal role as a (unique) worker inside the prison. For instance, while Marco became over time ‘the man for special tasks’, Darko presented himself as ‘the man for all cases’:

Because when I’m in the workshop, I want to work (laughs). I don’t have much attendance at the workplace [due to health reasons], but when I’m there, I work, and then I work better than most of the others there. And I’m also … just today I got a compliment again, that I was the man for special tasks. If a single-unit production is required, made of wood, then he [the foreman] just hands me the plan and the material and waits until I bring him the finished object (laughs). […] Because I haven’t been working with wood since yesterday. I have many years of experience actually. And I find it very pleasant that I can work independently, that not every step is dictated to me, like to a toddler. (Marco, 4.5.2016)

I was the man for all cases. I did everything: I worked with wood; with glass; with paper, labels, cards; then with the welding torch, I made cans, candelabras, lanterns; then I soldered, actually everything, yes (laughs). And then one [prisoner] was about to leave and they needed a successor for rug production, someone who is trustworthy, where one can say: Yes, he can do that. And then they came to me. At first I thought: No, I don’t want to leave this place. […] But then I said: Wait a minute, everything is not so easy out there as well, there are also changes, and you have to make something new again. That doesn’t mean that the other thing you did was bad. And I actually like it. (Darko, 6.5.2016)

Another example comes from Hans, who was from time to time asked by one of the foremen to help him weed the prison’s surroundings (within the walls) as only he—as a ‘plant specialist’—was able to recognize the undesired plants that had to be pulled out:

They heard from the [prison where he had been before] that I’m a dock specialist … the thing the cows don’t eat […] they have big green poles, green stems (he makes hand movement), green leaves and green seeds, and when the leaves turn black, the seeds are also black, all fall out, then they come back again. They have long roots like this (makes hand movement). […] And then they [prison staff] always asked me to come out with them to cut them out, because I know what it is. [A foreman] always asked me: Is this dock? Yes. Is this dock? Yes (laughs). After that he didn’t ask me anymore, he [recognized] it himself. (Hans, 4.6.2013)

As these examples suggest, experiencing the foremen’s valorization of the prisoners’ engagement at work and of their individual and personal competences and (work) skills is crucial for each prisoner’s sense of self. It allows prisoners to construct a particular role for themselves as workers, through which they can be (i.e. to perform and be perceived as) something different than a criminal or, maybe even more importantly, a ‘simple’ prisoner, namely a specialist or expert in one particular domain.

Moreover, as a recognized and appreciated worker, they may (re)gain the feeling of having social value. The importance of feeling useful to the community was explicitly mentioned by Rolf. He first worked in the prison garage (as described above) before he moved to the unit for ill and elderly prisoners, where for a short time he carried out one of the two jobs available, namely distributing the delivered food to the prisoners and cleaning their common dining room—a job that he soon lost due to problems with some staff members. As he explained to me, he appreciated this latter job because it allowed him to make a meaningful contribution to the prisoner community: ‘It’s a job that has to be done, which makes a contribution and pleases people’. As he added, to carry out a job that is useful was most important for him (Fieldnotes, 5.4.2016).

As indicated, the effects of the prisoners’ construction and maintenance of their roles as unique and (useful) workers goes beyond self-representations. They are also expressed and performed through particular attitudes and ‘body techniques’ (Mauss, 1968). For instance, when Juris told me about his previous job in the prison’s technical service, he presented himself as an independent, hard-working person who imposed upon himself a lot of stress as he felt compelled to ‘take work home’ and sacrifice his leisure time, which finally ‘forced’ him to take sleeping pills. At the same time, however, he made himself indispensable for the running of the prison:

Juris::

I have taken sleeping pills since last August. I have reduced that to half of it now [thanks to the new job]. And it will take one more month and I’ll leave it all behind and drink my tea again so I will again be sleeping like a log.

Irene::

You couldn’t sleep because you couldn’t switch off?

J::

Yes, I couldn’t stop thinking. They [the thoughts] kept on turning. Because … I was physically tired, but I didn’t have the freedom anymore to do anything else.

I::

Because of your job?

J::

Yes. Sounds exaggerated maybe, but if I do something, then I do it with heart and soul. If I see a problem, then I cannot … like changing my uniform and going home. I keep on thinking about it. About a third of the administration, which should have been done by the bosses there, it was me who did that at night, on my computer.

I::

For the technical service?

J::

For the company, yes. Including registration, TV, […] [I] registered everything.

I::

I see. Then you didn’t have any free time anymore.

J::

In my free time, I also made lists. I took along a pile of folders at the weekend. Nobody asked what I was doing with these folders. I just wanted to maintain order. And you wouldn’t believe it: the day after I quit, the problems started [at the technical service]. (Juris, 22.3.2016)

Interestingly, what appears in all the extracts presented above is that the prisoners’ representations of their roles as workers do not indicate (or perhaps only very vaguely as in the case of Hans’ story) that the work they are talking about actually takes place in a prison—it could be anywhere. Thus, the experience of being a recognized and appreciated worker allows prisoners, first, to transcend the framework of the institutional context that assigns uniform roles and statuses to the prisoners and to experience individuality, and second, to reconnect with the (working) community beyond the prison walls.

To conclude, I argue that the feeling of being recognized as a unique and at the same time socially ‘useful’ individual through the experience of appreciation at work is particularly crucial for long-term prisoners held in indefinite incarceration. Indefinite incarceration is accompanied by a loss of those roles and social statuses, which to a great extent, at least in so-called Western societies, as mentioned above, prisoners had established through participation in the labour market. In the literature, this loss is often also described as ‘social death’ (see Goffman, 1961). This applies to prisoners in general, and in particular to prisoners who are physically, socially and morally excluded from society. Hence, for many of the prisoners I talked to, work, and more precisely the work context, constitutes an important (potential) source for developing and maintaining a positive sense of themselves, by (re)gaining self-esteem and (re)constructing an identity other than that of a ‘dangerous’ criminal (to the public) and a ‘simple’ prisoner (within the prisoner community). As I show in the following, recognition is also strongly connected to the experience of trust, which, as I argue, is another issue of existential importance for these prisoners.

5.5.2 Being Trustworthy

Prisons are generally described as environments characterized by a high degree of mutual distrust among prisoners, and also between staff and prisoners (Crewe, 2009; Goffman, 1961). Based on a recent study on trust in maximum-security prisons in England, Liebling et al. (2015) emphasize that although trust is generally rare, it does, in different forms and to various degrees, exist in this kind of institution. According to the authors, the ‘best forms of trust’ were used:

as a way to connect with an individual or facilitate growth. They included getting to know prisoners, finding their talents and strengths, encouraging them to explore new avenues, and giving them (often creatively found) opportunities to demonstrate trustworthiness. (Liebling et al., 2015, p. 6)

In contrast, ‘bad forms of trust’ are identified when trust was used for ‘self-serving ends, such as when prisoners were trusted with information about other prisoners that they should not be party to’ (Liebling et al., 2015, p. 6). The authors point out that ‘where trust was used intelligently, it could have life affirming and damage repairing consequences’ (Liebling et al., 2015, p. 6).

The experience of trust, more precisely ‘good’ forms of trust, also surfaced in my interviews. Being assigned the status of trustworthiness within the work context seems to have a strong and positive impact on the prisoners’ experiences at work and essential consequences for their sense of self. As I show in the following, the feeling of being trusted in prison is further linked to the following experiences: (1) being granted more autonomy and responsibility, (2) being allowed to bypass internal rules, (3) having access to exclusive and ‘untouched’ places and (4) being ‘heard’ by the prison management—all rare ‘goods’ in the carceral context.

The experience of trust in the prison’s work context may emerge in various settings and different situations. However, it is above all an issue for prisoners who are officially deemed trustworthy by being given one of the (less available) so-called Vertrauensjobs (i.e. jobs that are based on trust). These usually include, as mentioned earlier, jobs in the housekeeping and maintenance services (including technical service and construction), as well as the prison’s library.

5.5.2.1 Being Granted More Autonomy and Responsibility

Trust is at the core of the Vertrauensjobs as they generally grant the prisoners a comparably high degree of autonomy and responsibility, and often also access to places throughout the prison, including those generally only accessible to staff. Moreover, for prisoners, holding a Vertrauensjob means being less closely monitored during work hours and officially allowed to structure their workday more freely and define their own working rhythm—thus, being their own boss:

For ten months now I’ve been [working in housekeeping]. I clean [the unit]. I’m my own boss, no one commands me, no one sets the pace for me, I organize myself. I do that, then this, then that, then I take a break, then this again, then another break, and that’s how I get time done. (Jonathan, 24.9.2013)

I worked in the medical service [doing the cleaning work]. This is a job of trust, just like in the social service, granted by the management. They first check how he [the prisoner] is and what he does and so on. And then I was there for ten years, in the medical service, and now I work in the social service, where you have seen me //exactly// And what’s nice about it, I like to work independently. So that means I don’t like it, if there is always someone behind me: Hey, it’s not time for a break yet, go on working. They can forget that. I used to work independently and will do it until the end of my life. I don’t like to be ordered around. Well, I did the military, but still. (Theo, 3.5.2016)

As I noted, these Vertrauensjobs are predominantly assigned to prisoners held in indefinite incarceration. This is not surprising as these prisoners are long-term residents and hence known by the prison management and staff. These prisoners are also certain to stay for a longer period of time, if not forever. Consequently, many of them are generally keen to have a job that provides them with some variety, a bit more responsibility and autonomy. Simultaneously, the prison management and staff are equally interested in keeping them satisfied in order to avoid unrest. In addition, these prisoners are generally known for following the rules and knowing the system (see also Sects. 2.2.1 and 2.2.2).

However, trust—in the form of being granted more autonomy and responsibility—can also be experienced in the common workshops, although this was rarely mentioned by the prisoners working there. One prisoner, Leo, completed two vocational trainings inside prison. His newly gained competences and skills were appreciated by the foremen, who, as a result, allowed Leo a bit more freedom compared to his fellow prisoners:

I […] get well along with the bosses. They practically give me every job. And this is important, the diversity, that you have variety. Well, you have repetition everywhere, a routine, that’s part of every profession … but they also notice, if I have to [do the same job for a long time] then they know exactly, the next day I get restless and start running around, still working, but then they know exactly that I feel bored, and then they just look that I can somehow do something else. Of course, I enjoy that too, that freedom, and it’s a huge support […] [This makes me] happy and also proud. And that I can move a little bit more freely than others, that they allow me a bit more. (Leo, 31.8.2017)

Finally, Michael made me aware that the experience of trust can also be more subtle and less observable, though no less important for the prisoner concerned. Trust ultimately remains a relative and subjective experience:

I’m glad that I can work, that I have my work there [in the workshop]. [The foremen] they have confidence in me. I always do the cutting of the labels, as you have already seen //yes, exactly//, this is now work that I like to do: it’s also monotonous, but I like it. Now it’s only me who cuts, so to speak. Before that, two, three others had to help me. (Michael, 6.5.2016)

In addition to being granted more autonomy and responsibility, holding a Vertrauensjob is also related to other advantages, such as ‘bypassing’ internal rules.

5.5.2.2 ‘Bypassing’ Internal Rules

Among those who hold an official Vertrauensjob, certain prisoners emphasized that this is also connected to the ability to officially ‘bypass’ certain house rules. When a prisoner ignores a rule, this can often be heard and seen by others due to the immediate reactions initiated by technical security measures (e.g. alarm devices) or attentive personnel. Being allowed to ‘break’ rules (or, as an outsider would argue, having to follow different ones) without causing any institutional intervention was mentioned by the prisoners as a clear and important sign of trust:

[While working in the technical service] I was a prisoner who was allowed to go everywhere. Of course not with a key, but they let me in everywhere when I rang or knocked. And I was always allowed to go through the metal arc [metal detector] during work hours, it was whistling and whistling [but no one was checking]. (Juris, 22.3.2016)

I’m the only one in this prison who is walking around with a tool bag. And the employees, they got used to it, they know that, and when I come in from outside, of course, I have to go through the metal arc; I have to pull that off too. And in the beginning, they took everything out, rummaged through it, searched it, they were doing this for two years, and then they gave up. They just ran out of patience. And this is also a bit of freedom, a piece of trust. Because just like I said, it’s just screwdrivers, but they can be used as weapons, they can also be misused to demolish things. But I earned trust over time. (Markus, 28.9.2017)

As these quotations illustrate, what is at stake in being allowed to bypass internal rules is less the fact that these prisoners’ working conditions are less restrictive, but rather the ability to stand out clearly from the prison crowd, which again affects their sense of self in a positive way.

When I first came across Markus, I thought he was a staff member. His appearance and way of moving made me draw this conclusion. This experience leads me to suggest that the trust these prisoners are granted probably also influences the way they experience and use their (imprisoned) bodies.

5.5.2.3 Having Access to Exclusive and ‘Untouched’ Places

As discussed above, prisoners who are allowed to circulate more freely within the prison may gain an enriched geographical experience of the place and the feeling of being less imprisoned (see Sect. 5.2). This again applies to those prisoners with a Vertrauensjob. They are not only freer to circulate; they also have access to exclusive places, generally not accessible to the rest of the prisoners: spaces of authority. These include the staff offices, cafeteria and cloakroom. Having access to these places plays an important role in the prisoners’ feelings of self-worth and experience of imprisonment.

Among other things, Hugo was at the time we met in charge of cleaning the staff canteen (illustrated in Fig. 5.7), which has to be carried out on a daily basis. As the following extract of our interview suggests, for him, the canteen (which represents for the prison staff a recreational space) clearly signifies a space where he experienced an almost family-like atmosphere and where interactions with staff made him feel respected as an (equal) human being. It is a place where staff members chat and joke with him, and would even offer him a cup of coffee from time to time:

From time to time, someone comes in to have a cup of coffee […] to smoke a cigarette, to chat with me a little bit, to offer me a coffee. Here I have a lot of contact with the employees. […] Here [in this prison] it’s just … yes, a little more relaxed […] almost a bit familiar. You know each other, you can joke with each other, you can talk to each other. (Hugo, 7.9.2017)

Fig. 5.7

(Source Photo by a prisoner)

Access to spaces of authority: The staff canteen

As he further explained, it also happens that the officers talk to each other about issues that probably should not be heard by prisoners, or that they unintentionally leave internal documents or personal items in the room. This provides him with additional opportunities to prove his trustworthiness as he remains silent about what he has heard and immediately hands over to the management documents officers accidentally left in the canteen—‘without having a look’ (Hugo, 7.9.2017).

Jobs in prison housekeeping may also include cleaning the staff cloakroom and the room where standby staff spends the night (see Fig. 5.8).

Fig. 5.8

(Source Photo by a prisoner)

Access to spaces of authority: The place where prison staff spend the night

Fig. 5.9

(Source Photo by a prisoner)

An ‘untouched place’

When standing together in the staff cloakroom, a small room without windows that is used by those officers who do sports during their break—containing some (perhaps sweaty) sports clothes and shoes belonging to prison staff—Erwin explained to me that having access to this kind of backstage area, where he must clean the toilet and the shower, gives him great ‘satisfaction’ and reassurance:

Irene::

How is it for you, to have access to [the staff cloakroom], there are personal things in here …

Erwin::

It’s of course a great satisfaction. […] You see, this is the shower that I have to clean; [it] is the shower for the staff.

I::

You said it gives you satisfaction to be allowed to be in here, did I get that right? That you receive confidence //yes//

E::

Exactly.

I::

And what do you think then, you always see the staff in uniform, and here you see their shoes and the towels and the bags …

E::

Yes, it’s actually normal for me.

I::

You’re actually looking a little bit behind the scenes.

E::

Yeah, that’s what reassures me, because they have confidence in me. (Erwin, 18.10.2017)

Prisoners who circulate throughout the prison also have access to what Markus labelled ‘untouched’ places. These areas are generally accessed neither by fellow prisoners nor employees. Such places, which are of emotional importance for the prisoners, may be rooms in the prison that are largely inaccessible (e.g. because they need to be renovated) as well as places that have simply no significance (or no concrete function) and hence do not exist for the prison (similar to the ‘free places’ described by Goffman, 1961, p. 230). One concrete example is the small meadow illustrated in Figure 5.9, which is located in the outdoor area of the prison.

During our walking interview, Markus and I walked among various places along his work route. As he was at the time of the interview working in the prison’s construction service, his workplace also included the area around the prison (still within the walls). At some point, he led me to this small meadow, located very close to the prison walls.

Markus::

This [meadow] is my absolute favourite place in prison.

Irene::

Really?

M::

Yes. […] This is where I find peace. During the break in the afternoon, when I work outside, I always spend the break outside … then I lie down here, take off my t-shirt, lie down and take a sunbath. Very comfortable, I have my rest, I can switch off … I close my eyes, snooze for ten minutes, then I’m not in prison.

I::

What exactly is it that makes you feel like this? //I have no idea// Because me, I basically see fences and the wall.

M::

I cannot answer that question, I just don’t know, maybe it has to do with the fact that we are here in front of one of our depots, so the place here is just ours, the construction service. That’s a bit, I don’t know, I’m territory-related like a dog, have no idea (laughs).

I::

It’s like your territory.

M::

This is our territory, yes, mine. And that’s why this is actually the place where I can say, when I take a break there in the afternoon, alone, when I have my peace, then I feel good, as amazing as it sounds.

I::

Mh. Do you want to take a picture of this?

M::

Yes. It’s actually just a meadow, but it’s not a lawn, it’s a real meadow, a wild meadow. And everything that has something to do with vegetation reminds me a little bit of the outside. It’s not that … they do cut the grass, but it’s really wild compared to the other places, because nobody is interested in this place behind here.

I::

Yes, I think I can see now what you mean.

M::

Do you understand what I mean?

I::

Yes.

M::

It’s an untouched place, so to speak. [He takes a picture with the fences and wall at his back]

I::

And are you actually here every day?

M::

Pretty much, yes.

[…]

I::

May I take a picture from this side?

M::

Of course.

I::

So that I remember //the contrast//, yes and because I find it exciting that I perceived this place completely differently, because I don’t have any connection to this place. (Markus, 28.9.2017)

During our walking interview, I was able to access Markus’ perception of this meadow, filtered through his values and emotions, as he presented the meadow as an ‘untouched place’—by fellow prisoners as well as by the management—which let it remain ‘wild’. His perception was also filtered by his intention to not focus on the fences, the walls and the cameras, which are particularly obvious in that area. He instead emphasized the fact that this place, the meadow, provides him with the experience of getting in touch with ‘vegetation’, which allows him to feel connected to the outside world. As this extract also shows, having access to Markus’ filtering of his perception in situ, allowed me to become aware of and de-emphasize my own perceptual presuppositions and biases (see also Kusenbach, 2003, p. 469): what I perceived, above all, were fences and the wall, all clear indications that this place is a prison. While I had a horizontal field of vision (see Figure 5.10), Markus’ perspective was clearly vertical: focusing on the ground and the sky.

Fig. 5.10

(Source Photo by Irene Marti)

A ‘simple meadow’ within the prison walls

Furthermore, I not only gained access to Markus’ perception, but also to his particular ways of engaging with the prison context through spatial practices. The meadow is the place where he spent his official breaks during work hours. However, as he revealed during our interaction, he tried to make the routine of having a break as rewarding as possible through particular bodily practices. By lying in the meadow, closing his eyes and having a rest, he transcended the here and now and found peace and quiet. By means of the mundane practice of taking a work break in a meadow, he created a moment of freedom.

5.5.2.4 Feeling Heard by Prison Management

As my empirical material also suggests, being considered a trustworthy worker may also lead to the experience of being taken seriously as a prisoner, and, more concretely, being heard by prison management. Juris, who, as he explained to me, is ‘known as a trustworthy prisoner’, successfully ‘managed’ to get a job in the prison’s technical service by highlighting his professional qualities and mentioning that hiring him would be ‘a win-win situation’ for all parties:

Juris::

Two weeks before this job became vacant […] I heard from my predecessor that this job became vacant, that he left. Then I asked if they already had someone and he [the staff member responsible] said that there were a lot of applicants. Then I went […] wrote a letter to the head of security. Like an application on the outside. I wrote about a win-win situation, but also that both would have to take a risk.

Irene::

And what did he gain with you?

J::

Well, an absolute top professional. I can do everything. No, I cannot do everything: I have to see it once, but then I can do it. […] And then, he actually gave me this job. […] And I always said: if I leave this place, moving away from the technical service is at the same time a departure from [the place where the prison is located]. (Juris, 22.3.2016)

More recently, another job was ‘offered’ to him: the job of librarian. He was able to take ‘time for reflection’ before issuing any commitment, because, as he pointed out, he is known to be reliable and someone who can be trusted. He emphasized again that he reached his goals in a self-determinate way:

Last summer I decided that something has to change. But I didn’t want to throw everything away. […] It was a coincidence that this library opened. It [the job] was offered to me in November. At first I thought, for the sake of God, no, that’s [not at all a job for me] (laughs), I don’t see myself there. Then I took some time for reflection and my luck was that no one else was really interested. […] Only a reliable person is suitable for this job, someone who can be trusted and also be left alone. Because [there], you’re not under supervision all day. It has to be someone … it cannot be a newcomer who said he is a trained librarian – who knows what person hides behind? (Juris, 22.3.2016)

These examples from Markus refer to the negotiation of the prisoner’s wage:

I know that I’m a good worker; otherwise I wouldn’t have this job. My boss gets the most out of it regarding bonuses, what he still can, he is aware that I’m not satisfied if I don’t receive the maximum possible. (Markus, 29.3.2016)

[We had to do this job] under the blazing sun, and I really cannot bear the sun. And then, after five weeks, when we finished and got the next wage and I saw that we didn’t get any bonus for that, I got pissed off. And that was the first time I said to the boss: now something has to change, otherwise I’m looking for a new job. That’s slavery. So, we’ll see [he refers to the next payroll]. (Markus, 28.9.2017)

In the narratives presented above, based on the knowledge that they are perceived as trustworthy and reliable, the prisoners reverse the institutionally established power relations between staff and prisoners. In a confident and assertive manner, the prisoners negotiate with the prison staff and management in order to obtain a desired job as well as particular working conditions (i.e. the wage). However, I claim that the fact that these prisoners are ‘heard’ by the management is also linked to the long-term nature of these prisoners’ stays. As mentioned in Sect. 2.2.2, the staff are interested in having satisfied (in particular long-term) prisoners who do not cause too much trouble. Hence, they are also more willing to cooperate with them.

In sum, experiencing recognition in the prison’s work context, in connection with the feeling of being appreciated as a valuable and trustworthy person, is of particular existential importance for these prisoners. Against the background that they will most likely be permanently excluded from society, socially constructed as ‘absolute others’ (Greer & Jewkes, 2005), work allows them to raise their self-esteem and (re)create a positive conception of themselves. Being an imprisoned worker rather than a working prisoner, which is the topic of the next section, enables them to feel like unique human beings as well as (still) members of society.

5.5.3 Being a ‘Simple’ Prisoner

Just as work allows prisoners to experience trust, respect, responsibility and the valorization of personal competences and abilities, it is also a context where prisoners may encounter the opposite: contempt, misrecognition or indifference. Such experiences may evoke feelings of being treated ‘simply as a number’ (Marco, 4.5.2016) rather than an individual with a biography, personal skills and interests. This experience was put forward, especially, by prisoners with a high work morale, who consider the professional context an important arena for finding meaning and self-fulfilment.

For certain prisoners, the workplace constitutes a social space where they experience frustration or even humiliation due to a lack of recognition of their skills and expertise, and also their personal potential. Such an experience can emerge in situations where the foreman does not acknowledge or consider the prisoner’s work experience. This is reinforced in cases when the prisoner feels superior to the foreman regarding his or her professional expertise, as the following quotes indicate:

The [foreman] doesn’t know much about woodworking tools, me I’ve learned that. And then he gives […] someone [a prisoner] a saw to work with but cannot show him how to use it properly. […] And then I cannot stay idle, I cannot, but I have to, it’s not allowed to show anyone how to do something. (Rolf, 11.9.2013)

At work you can … Me, I’m a trained carpenter, but I cannot say anything to a younger [fellow prisoner] or show him how I learned and used to do it [a particular step], the boss doesn’t want that. The last time he scolded me. I don’t like that. […] I’m not allowed to work according to my own approach: I have to do it the way the boss wants it. Well, I’ll do it that way, but as a specialist I’m not allowed to help someone else or tell him how to do it. […] That’s a bit of a disadvantage in here. (Franz, 10.9.2013)

A similar experience was reported by Lars, who was at the time of my fieldwork engaged in a job that was very frustrating for him as, according to him, his foreman did not acknowledge his skills and interests, and also would not allow him to further develop his personal potential. He used to tell me again and again how much he disliked it because it was a job that, according to him, ‘anyone could do’ and ‘you don’t need to think’ while performing it. He, in contrast, needed to be ‘challenged mentally’ in the workplace and to experience ‘independence and personal responsibility’ (Fieldnotes, 11.2.2016).

The lack of recognition of prisoners’ skills, expertise and personal potential may not only cause frustration but also have a strong negative impact on their sense of self, thereby reinforcing their experience of social exclusion. When I talked to Rolf in 2013 and again in 2016, he was staying in one of the units for ill and elderly prisoners, where work is to a great extent not supposed to be productive in an economic sense but instead aims to occupy and structure the prisoners’ daily lives. The products the prisoners produce are usually sold at the prison shop. What Rolf was at that time experiencing in this unit was in great contrast to his previous experience in the prison’s garage, which I presented above in Sect. 5.3:

I have achieved so much in my life that I can be proud of, and now I’m supposed to glue together the filthy bits of driftwood, sometimes so porous that they collapse after a week, to stick them together with hot glue. I create characters, that’s all well and good, you see, they are partly, yes, still pretty. But people buy them just because they are cheap. And I think that’s a humiliation of old prisoners who have spent a lifetime struggling to acquire skills to make a good contribution to society. I think that’s bad, an unnecessary humiliation. (Rolf, 11.9.2013)

I think it’s really bad for the prisoner when he’s forced to do work which he doesn’t believe in, which he doesn’t enjoy, and, above all, he is aware, or at least has the impression that if somebody buys it, at best he buys it out of pity. I think that’s bad. […] A so-called Christmas tree, with a terrible wooden frame, with a huge wooden block underneath, as a foot […]. And then all sorts of driftwood, worm-eaten, rotten, [which is] glued to it, that’s supposed to be a Christmas tree. You work on it for three weeks, four weeks, five weeks, one month because it’s so cumbersome, laborious to make it, to make it last. And then it’s sold for maybe 60 [Swiss] francs. Well, that’s just not normal. (Rolf, 6.5.2016)

From Rolf’s perspective, the work he has to carry out in the special unit is anything but ‘normal’. This is related to the material he is supposed to work with (‘worm-eaten’, ‘rotten driftwood’), the tools he has to use (not adequate), the price his work is sold for (too low) and the reason it is bought (pity). I argue that due to his high work morale and identification with what he is creating, being forced to do an ‘abnormal’ job (both regarding the mode of production and the value and usefulness of the product) makes him feel worthless (i.e. not ‘normal’) as a person and thereby even more excluded from a society to which he can only connect (i.e. contribute), if at all, through pity.

In sum, while some prisoners experience recognition and feel respected as individuals and, in a way, as ‘equal’ human beings by their foremen, others encounter foremen who exercise their authority in a way that makes the prisoners feel incompetent or like a simple and exchangeable worker. From the prisoners’ perspective, these foremen neither respect nor acknowledge the prisoners’ individual interests, skills and previous work experience. Additionally, this kind of work relationship does not allow these prisoners to flourish. Therefore, they are not only missing individuality and autonomy in this particular carceral context, but also the fact that neither their past nor their future is considered—they are held in the present, specifically a (repetitive) present determined by the prison. Finally, being forced to carry out work in which they do not believe (e.g. non-productive work with no value for the community) can damage prisoners’ relationship to themselves as they may come to feel not only useless, but worthless. In their narratives, these prisoners made clear that in this institution, they cannot be the person they ‘normally’ are (or could become), but just a (working) prisoner.

5.6 Conclusion

This chapter has explored work in prison by more closely examining prisoners’ lived experience during this particular part of the day, and how the experience of work shapes their general experience of indefinite incarceration as well as their sense of self.

Depending on their concrete job and tasks, the prisoners are granted various degrees of mobility and freedom of movement. This is crucial as it shapes not only their geographical experience of the prison but also their ‘sense of space’ and hence their personal perception of ‘the prison’. Moreover, through work they may also access places less marked by the carceral. This is related to both the physical configuration of the workplaces and the way they are treated by the foremen, who are often more than ‘a simple boss’, but an important reference person for these long-term prisoners.

However, as in the outside world, work signifies above all a potential and important social space where prisoners search for recognition, which they may experience through the valorization of their individual skills and competences as well as the attribution of trustworthiness. As a recognized and appreciated worker they may (re)gain the feeling of being a unique individual as well as (still) a member of society. This is of existential importance for these prisoners, all labelled ‘dangerous’ and hence not only physically but also morally and socially excluded from society, to which, however, they theoretically may return one day. The opposite experiences of contempt, misrecognition and indifference not only cause a high degree of frustration but also reinforce their experience of social exclusion.

***

The prisoners’ workday ends at around 4.30 pm. After dinner, the official leisure time begins, which is the topic of the next chapter.