Prison

Last Friday night I was lucky enough to go to prison. The Dame Phyllis Frost Centre, formerly known as the Deer Park Metropolitan Women's Correction Centre (security level: maximum) to be precise. I went with a couple of friends to see their annual play put on in conjunction with the amazing Somebody's Daughter Theatre Company (do hit this link and check them out, but to give you the idea, their charter is 'Bringing down the walls of difference and indifference through the arts....')
It's not a public event as such, but as a previous volunteer, my friend has arranged tickets for the past two years. No charge - just your full name and DOB for a police check.

Getting in is quite a process with metal detectors, sniffer dogs (not the cute little beagle types you see at the airport, the big scary Alsatian ones), empty pockets and photo ID your only hand luggage. No phones, no bags, no scarves, no tissues. Entry is in small groups and time consuming so once in, guests explore the art exhibition. The themes were perhaps predictably about freedom, choice and empowerment but no less poignant for it. There was a pencil sketch of a young boy of about five and a comment by the artist that this was done from a photo of her son she'd not seen since he was two. In truth, I couldn't look at it for long for fear of tearing up - which in the palpable atmosphere of high-school-esque excitement and festivity, seemed down right selfish.

Like last year, the play was written by the women and surprisingly (maybe that's my own prejudice) sophisticated. And yes, there were moments I needed to stare at a spot in the middle distance to contain my own emotion. I couldn't help but take stock of what I've done and where I've been in the past year - from quitting my corporate job and starting my own business, from our Christmas adventures with the kids in Asia, to countless fun-filled dinners and outings with friends, the ballet, movies, concerts, plays, lectures, pilates and exhibitions, the coffees and walks, runs in the sun and just being at home with Geoff and the kids in front of the fire with the footy on and a glass of red. I recognised many of the women from the year before and knew their year had been spent here. Right here. Within the confines of this razor-wired enclosure in the industrial (and increasingly residential) wasteland of Melbourne's outer west.

But it got even more fraught when I considered these women's children. It made me wonder who exactly was being punished. These women look like women I know, mums from school, colleagues, friends. But perhaps a shabby upbringing, a wrong crowd, circumstance or a couple of poor decisions - and here they are. The journey here seems potentially, and frighteningly, direct.

I don't know what the solution is and I do believe that crime requires retribution, but is this really the best we as a society can come up with? I know it sounds so cliched but if the money spent there was redirected to supporting women at risk before they offend, could that at least reduce the incidence?

The night concluded with a supper (and soft drink, no wine of course) prepared by the detainees before we headed back out, in small groups, to a bitterly cold Melbourne night and the trip back in a comfortable European car to our warm Eastern suburban homes, our families and a whole other world.