A challenge to the notion there are easy cures for offending. We need to treat prisoners with dignity and give them opportunities (education, job training) to change their own lives.

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ICPA
Introduction
Delighted to be here in this wonderful city and fascinating country.
I want to thank Unilinkfor asking me to do this.I’vebeenadvising themfora number ofyears
now because – as I’mabout to explain– I’mconvinced that aprison which respects prisoners,
is much more likelybea prison which succeeds. And Unilink’s work in prisons, initiallyin the
UK but now spreading around the world, respects prisoners by using digital technologyto
allowthemto takea range of dayto daydecisions, about howtheyspendtheirmoney, what
theyeat,when and with whomtheyhave avisit, and recentlyand very significantly,whether
and how they open up confidential exchanges with the Samaritans, the outstanding UK
charity which does so much to reduce suicide and self-harm. Giving prisoners the ability to
make for themselves such decisions restores a littledignityandrespect to them. And at the
same time, and indisputably, it saves money for correctional services.
Those who work in and around prisons work in a strange, largely secret, very occasionally
rewarding, but more often depressing places. No one involved in prison management is
often likelyto achieve a sense of a job well done. There are few accoladesfor those who run
prisons for whom, very often, a good week is one during which things don’t get any worse.
Many of us discovered this strange and fearful world ofincarceration accidentally.Certainly,
that was my experience. In the 1980s, I stumbled across a BBC documentary about
Strangeways Prison in Manchester in thenorth of England.I watched it because I was going
through that experience, probablyfamiliarto many of you, of a sociallife which hadground
to a halt because of thearrival of a new baby. TV tended to replace that social life and over
one very significant summer, and in a documentary ofbreath-taking candour, thefull horror
of lifefor prisoners in a typicallyovercrowded andunsanitary prison in Englandwas laidbare
in eight one-hour instalments. Almost 40 years later, I still have video copies somewhere in
my attic. When I first watched those films, in 1981, I was horrified, ashamed and – with the
self-righteousness of youth - indignant.
Later that year, pretending to be interested in training to be a prison governor – or Warden,
to use themore widelyused term –I was allowed to visit a prison for thefirst time. It was just
like theprison in theTV portrayal,but with an immediacy which only a visit could deliver. It
stank of human waste as threemen, sharing cells made by theVictorians for one, defecated
in buckets. Thehandful of prisoners who were unlocked, and it was no more than a handful,
were sewing mailbags.Staff, casually and openly,spokecontemptuouslyabout the men for
whom theywere caring. NobodyI spoketo that daywas alarmed by theconditionsin which
men lived or the absence of any opportunity to prepare for release. I should have fled and
returned to the much easier, much more civilised, business of running an English hospital.
But,as I walked out ofthat prisonthat day,Iwas certain that Ididn't want to do anything else
with my working life. A few months later I started work as a Prison Officer, my first step in a
penal career which was not only the longest, or the most challenging - sometimes near
overwhelming - part of my working life. But also, the most rewarding.

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16 years after briefly wearing a Prison Officer’s uniform, I found myself as Director General
and Chief Executive of thePrison Service in Englandand Wales. I was appointed at atime of
great optimism about UK public services and with unprecedented government investment
in them. Prison and Probation got their full share of that largesse. I got on extremely well
with the Government Minister then responsible for prisons and I persuaded him that we
shouldinvest massively in education,drug treatment and offending behaviourprogrammes.
At the time, my greatest optimism was about our offending behaviour programmes: short
courses for prisoners, delivered often for just a few hours, which early research suggested
might get offenders to think differently, to be more aware of the effect of crime on their
victims, and be less impulsive. We thought we were going to be able to transplant more
rational thinking skills in individuals.
Theinvestment did make an impact,particularlytheinvestment in educationwhich allowed
lots of men and women to improve their literacy and numeracy and make themselves
employable. Reoffending fell. But by a very small amount. For most people incarcerated
during that period,whenfinances were not remotelytheobstaclethey’vebecometoday,the
thingswe didto prisoners, thecourses we put themincluding thosewhich involved charities,
made little or no difference.
Many politicians,many journalists, and a fair proportionofprison professionals would argue
that, in that case, we failed. That if imprisonment fails to rehabilitate, it fails. As if
rehabilitation was its only purpose. But I would argue that has never been the case.
Imprisonment has never been just about rehabilitation. We also send people to prison for
deterrence and, most importantly, for retribution.
We seem almost to be ashamed of speaking about deterrence and certainly retribution.But
retribution against offenders is what holds our society back from a vigilantism which could
all to easily descend into barbarism. Taking away offenders’ liberty, as a mark of society’s
intolerance of criminal behaviour, is the primary role of a prison service. But all over the
world, it is rehabilitation which is claimed to be the main or even the only purpose of
imprisonment.
Despite a plethora of evidence which suggests that rehabilitation in a penal setting is
unlikely, claims of success are made all around the world. In Singapore, very
straightforwardly, they assert that their prisons “enforce secure custody of offenders and
rehabilitate them.” In Chile they “contribute to the social reintegration of persons deprived
of their liberty” In Botswana, the Prison Service insists that it provides “effective
rehabilitation and reintegration programmes.”
Some administrationsexpress an admirableand touching determinationto makethedream
of rehabilitation come true. In New South Wales, the service courageously boasts that
reducing recidivism is their sole priority and – even more courageously – they have
committed to reducing reoffending by five percent in the next four years.
Even in Texas theyclaimproudlythat they.“promotepositivechange in offender behaviour
and reintegrate offenders into society.” What the 25,000 prisoners in Texas who will serve
more than 40 years before release think of that one can only imagine. Or indeed, the 216

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prisoners currently on Death Row, or the families of the 565, men and women executed in
that State since 1982.
Some of these rehabilitative commitments – like New South Wales’ are genuinely be
admired. Most of them are simply vacuous. Some are concocted to attempt – generally
unsuccessfully – to paint a veneer of hope or optimism on custodial experiences which are
grim for staff and near unbearable for prisoners. But however noble or ignoble the
commitment to making prisons rehabilitative, otherthaninextremelylimited circumstances
which are often impossible to take to scale, the reality is that it cannot be done.
The overwhelming majority of those we incarcerate around the world have led
disadvantaged lives. Typically, they have had difficult childhoods, characterised by neglect
and abuse. We now know that the trauma of such damaging childhoods can play out for
decades.As adults,childrenwho’veexperienced neglectfulchildhoods,oftenbeing cared for
by different people as they’ve moved in and out of the public care system, will have
attachment difficulties, finding it difficult to make relationships, to trust, to accept help or
advice.And theirliveswilloftenbechaotic.Against all theevidence,we haveto stop thinking
that we can do short-term things to such individuals, particularly in the inhospitable
environment of a prison, which can correct such embedded disadvantage, that somehow
often in a few weeks or months, we can cure them. And, more pointedly, we have to stop
pretending that evenwithout -what inthepenallexicon-are termed interventions, that time
spent in prison, however bleakand impoverished, will somehow change prisoners’ lives. It’s
like taking seriously illpatients into a hospitalwhere they sleep and eat, but receive neither
care nor treatment, and hoping they’ll get better.
I know that some who listen to thisor read thiswill protest andoffer evidence of approaches
which have been successful. And thereare of course, some apparently impressive results for
some interventions. But establishing a causal link, testing thosesuccesses through thegold
standard of randomised controlled trials, is almost always lacking. But even if we were to
accept that some brief interventions can address decadeolddisadvantages,I’m afraid – and
to quote the Centre For Crime And Justice in the UK, that is simply evidence that
flowers do grow in the desert, particularly if well-watered. But that is no reason to believe that
deserts are appropriate places for the cultivation of flowers.
As an accumulation ofacademicstudies demonstrate,however well-intentioned thepursuit,
rehabilitationinprison is generally impossible. Indeed, often, prison will make things worse
and increase the likelihood of reoffending. I have never subscribed to the view of prisons
need beUniversities of Crime, but theydo haveacapacityto demoraliseandinstitutionalise.
My contention might be seen, by some, as defeatist, or perhaps even morally bankrupt. I
don’t thinkit is. Because if prison and correctionaladministrationsthe worldover were to be
realistic about incarceration’s limited capacity to rehabilitate, they might then put greater
effort into making prisons better places; more decent places; more moral places. Places
where, if members of our families, our children perhaps, were to be convicted of a serious
crime, places where we could countenance them being held without it terrifying us (and
them).

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When I worked in prisons in England, and particularly when I led the service through what
seem now to be years of affluence, I was desperate to demonstrate that prisons could
rehabilitate.I railed against short sentences, which didn’t give us time to do what I thought
were goodthings(unforgivably,inmy first gubernatorialjobin aprison for young offenders,
I urged visiting Judgesto send young men to us for a littlelongerso that we could turn them
into bricklayers or welders).
But as my career progressed, I sometimes became frustrated at the way small-scale
rehabilitative ventures in jails would be proudly displayed to visitors and to me when, most
of theprisoners in that particularjailwere living in shameful conditionsand without any sort
of regime. I remember one governor of a big ugly, Victorianmonstrosity, where a culture of
contempt fortheincarcerated seeped out ofthebrickwork, proudly showme abicyclerepair
initiative which employed about a dozen prisoners. It seemed to me it near blinded him to
the horror of many hundreds of prisoners locked up for most of every day in overcrowded
and unsanitary conditions. He was a good man. But he was finding it easier – and more
rewarding - to tryto changeafew individualsrather thanchangetheprison. He was, in short,
watering a few flowers in the desert.
The real challenge, and it’s a moral challenge is to run prisons which treat prisoners with
decency and dignity. One of the United Kingdom’s most revered statesmen, Winston
Churchill, might have re-packaged a quote from Dostoyevsky and passed it off as his own,
but he was right to say that
The mood and temper of the public in regard to the treatment of crime and criminals is one of
the most unfailing tests of the civilization of any country.
Keeping prisons clean, treating thoseweincarcerate with dignity andrespect,allowing them
a reasonable life withintheconfines imposed by a loss of libertyis a noble cause. But it's not
an easy one.
Brutality
In theseven years Iran prisons inEnglandandWales, I madedecencymy priority.I had joined
a prison service which was routinely violent, where a not insignificant minorityof staff were
brutal toward prisoners and where a greater minority were not themselves brutal, didn’t
assault prisoners themselves, but walked away whileothers did. I wanted to pursue decency
because it was morallyrequired. I liketo thinkthat brutalitywasmuch reduced onmy watch.
But I never believed, even in my most optimistic moments, that it disappeared and - as I've
said many times before - show me a prison governor or a prison warden who argues that
prisoners in his or her care are never abused, and I'll show you someone not fit to manage a
prison.
At one end of thepenal spectrum there are prisons in which respect for prisoners, whatever
theircrime, is thenorm. Such placesare few and far between. There are rather more prisons
around the world which are at the other extreme, and where a profound lack of respect for
the incarcerated is reflected in violence toward prisoners. Brutality in short.

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In some prisons – and sometimes in some other settings where residents are vulnerable and
powerless such as in long stay psychiatric hospitals or children’s homes - brutality can be
endemic. But itspotentialiseverywhere and even in thevery best institutions, certainlyeven
in the best prisons, individual staff can brutalise. The risk of that is always - simply always -
present.
It’s often impossible to foresee. And the culprits aren’t necessarily recognisable. I'd like to
convince you that the potential to abuse, is there in all of us and we need to run penal
institutions in that certain knowledge.
When I was a young, naive and somewhat idealistictrainee governor in a well-regarded and
generally caring prison for young men and boys, I knew that some officers assaulted
prisoners. But I was comforted bytheconvictionthat theoverwhelming majoritydidnot and
wouldnot. And I was entirelyconfident that some staff, whom I knew well, were not capable
of violence.
Then, one night, I was called into the prison because a young boy,a child,hadself-harmed,
cutting his wrists quite badly. I was sufficiently concerned to phone the senior officer in
chargeof the hospital.Iasked him to leave his bed and come into the jail. I knew him well - I
thought -andhadspent many hours in hishospitaldiscussing prisons andprisoners and their
capacity to reform. We talked earnestly about the need to make prisons more constructive
places and to understand that many of those in our care were primarily children. He was
caring. He was a good guy.
But that night,withinminutesof hisarriving in theprison helaunched on assault on thischild
which shocked me deeply. His apologyto me was significant. "I'm sorry" he said, "I'm really
sorry. You weren't supposed to see that." He sincerely believed that his omission had not
been to assault a boy, but to have done so in my sight.
People,allpeople,not just a sub-group offlawed individualscan besusceptibleto behaviour
which is grossly out of step with their general demeanour and attitude to life. And it’s that
capacityfor individualsto be corrupted, to act out of character, which is what we need to be
aware of. Thoseperceived as generally goodpeople,who areconsidered bythemselves, and
by those who know them, as kind and caring can do terrible things.
I recently read a fascinating biography about a man born into a devout Roman Catholic
family. As he grew up, and encouraged by parents who cossetted him, he developed a
vocation for the priesthood. And although that vocation was never fulfilled, he considered
himself to be a deeply devout Christian and with an earnest belief in the role of duty in a
moral life.
That sense of duty drew him to the army and in the First World War he served his country
with distinction. Promoted through the ranks, he became his country’s youngest non-
commissioned officer. Wounded three times, he was awarded his country's highest
decorations for gallantry.

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In peacetime he became attracted to the back to the land movement and pursued a farm-
based lifestyle, in which family life was of primary importance. He married and had five
children whom hewas known to love very much. He became interested in photographyand
his biographyislittered with photographsdepicting asimplefamily, a life of picnics and ball
games.
A few daysbeforehedied,hededicated hislifestoryto histhreedaughtersandtwo sons and
in a final message, capturing indisputably his love for his children, he told his eldest son to
"Keep your good heart. Become a person who lets himself be guided primarily by warmth and
humanity... listen above all to the voice in your heart"
And yet this was Rudolf Hoess.
This loving Fatherand church going familyman was theCommandant of Auschwitz and was
responsible- as he lateradmitted to acourt at Nuremburg - for thedegradation,humiliation,
and slaughter of two and a half million Jewish men, women and children, gassed by the
Zyklon B Gas, the use of which he personally and enthusiastically developed.
It would bea comfort to us allif peoplelike Hoess were recognisablymonsters. But, mostly,
theyare not. Peoplelike us, here in this hall, including me, have thepotentialto do terrible
things. And institutions which are closed, in which the incarcerated have few rights, or little
access to justice or protection, will always be vulnerable. That's why the challenge of
preventing abuse and brutality is never ending.
Decent andrespectful prisons ofcourse have to bemuch more thansimplynon-brutal. But a
prison which takesstaff violence to prisoners seriously, where there’sno complacencyabout
its potential, and where officers who transgress are invariably dismissed - and wherever
possible are prosecuted - are providing a foundation for decency and respect.
Decency
Building on that foundation, a decent prison is one which takes seriously the cleanliness of
the cells in which prisoners live and the lavatories they use. It's about privacy when dealing
with bodily functions. It's about the ability to be visited by loved ones in welcoming
conditions. It's about access to books, televisionand cultural activities.Most of allit’s about
the way prisoners are addressed by staff and the respect present in staff prisoner
relationships. It’s about making a reality of the much-quoted observation that we send
people to prison as a punishment, not for punishment.
I know that in politicallycharged administrations,decencycan allto easily becaricatured as
being soft on crime and providing no public purpose. One Government Minister would
occasionally chastise me about decency, telling me that it wasn’t enough if reoffending
wasn’t simultaneously reduced. It seemed to me, it was a moral challenge in its own right.
But,at thesame time,Ibelieved that decencymight providetheplatformfor someoffenders
to change their own lives. Subsequent research bears that out.

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Decent prisons in which prisoners are respected seem to provide a foundation for prisoner
self-growth. Indecent, unsafe prisons allow no such growth and further damage those who
haveto survive there. As theuniquely respected UKcriminologist AlisonLiebling (who Ithink
is here today) has said:
It is important, whatever our overall attitude towards imprisonment, to understand the
differences between prisons and penal systems that damage, and prisons or penal systems that
support or repair.
And:
Only once a prison has accomplished respect, humanity, safety, good staff-prisoner
relationships, professionalism, and organization and clarity, does it become a place in which
personal development – or engagement with the self – can take place.
In England,and during thetimeI was running theservice, Iwas afrequent visitor to Grendon,
a therapeutic prison and one of those which had promisingly lower reconviction rates than
other institutions. Some prisoners with clinical needs undoubtedly benefited from the
therapeutic, psychological based interventions which were available to them. But I believe
more developed as individualssimply because theylived somewhere where theyfelt valued
and respected and where, crucially, they believed their visiting families were respected and
valued.
In such circumstances, prisoners willmake thedecision ornot to changetheirown lives. This
was echoed for me as I was preparing this speech by a UK governor who has managed the
most challenging prison I’ve visited.Prompted by sight oftheICPA programme and thetitle
ofthisaddress, Duncan McLoughlin,aretired NorthernIreland governorof some distinction,
wrote to me and said this:
Only prisoners can rehabilitate themselves. The task of the prison is to present opportunities to
them to make that possible. But… if a prison is to be a positive influence on a prisoner then that
can only be achieved if we treat prisoners with respect, that we provide decent living conditions,
that we make the prison a place where there is dignity, an absence of fear, and where there is a
sense of self-worth and self-respect?
I might add that inmyexperience, treating prisoners with dignity canalso taketheanger out
of prisons and prisoners, making order and control easier and riots and other disturbances
less likely. Certainly, as my decency agenda took hold in England, instances of serious
disturbances fell dramatically. Decent prisons become peaceful prisons.
So, stop fretting about about rehabilitation. Politelydiscourage those who will urge you to
believe that they have a six-week or six-month course which can undo the damage of a
lifetime. The next time someone tells you they have a quick scheme which can transform
lives (transform is the word of which you should be particularly suspicious) politely point to
the research.

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Instead concentrate on running good prisons. Meet the moral challenge of running prisons
in which individuals are respected. And don’t believe that physical conditions, poor
architecture, or overcrowding make decency and respect impossible. They might make the
challengeharder, but prisoners are consistent in telling researchers likeAlison Liebling that:
Relationships with staff both vary more, and are more important, in their day-to-day
experience, than material conditions.
If you run decent prisons, you’re less likely further to damage the disadvantaged, often
wretched, and sometimes despised individuals we lock up. And you may allowindividualsto
grow, to take advantage of the educational opportunities you offer, to think about the
employment programme you make available, and make the first tentative steps to
rehabilitating themselves.
In support of that,andas a conclusion I couldn’t offerbetterevidence, thanthereflections of
a good friend of mine, Mark Leech. Mark wasn’t always a friend. For many years he was
considered to be one of the most dangerous and difficult prisoners in the UK, spending 14
years inside, largely in solitary confinement. Since his release, and alongside becoming a
successful businessman, he’sthrown himself into prison reform. He was a primary source of
candid advice to me when I ran the English Service as he has been to my successors. Here’s
his take:
Expecting our prisons to reform those who we throw into them from high-crime inner city
housing estates, with their school exclusions, unemployment, poor opportunities, poor
parenting and where gang, gun, drug, alcohol, violence and crime are embedded, is an
impossible ask when the living experience in so many jails is one of disrespect and often abuse,
violence and filth.
61 of the 62 prisons I was in were like that. Then I arrived at the one which was radically
different. Where safety and respect prevailed, and where I was given the opportunity to change
my life.
So, ifyou reallywant to changelives. Forget all the cures and innovations. Just make prisons
decent and respectful, places where, perhaps, our children could safely live. And as you do
so, some prisoners will take the opportunity to change themselves.