Notes on Prison Theater in Northern Uganda, Part 3

The third and final part of this series takes the reader inside the prison walls and describes the often gratifying, sometimes puzzling process of devising original theater with 100 Ugandan inmates over the course of a three-week prison theater project conducted in the summer of 2007. [Go to Part One] [Go to Part Two]

Maybe not. I can’t tell. I feel nauseous. And feverish. My joints are achy and I’m exhausted. The Catholic nuns from whom my wife and I are renting a room are certain I have malaria. If they could have prevented me from coming to the prison today, they would have, but they could only cluck disapprovingly as I made my way out the front gates. Now, having completed the warm-ups with the men, I take a seat on a thick stump that they’ve carried in for me. It’s the third day of the workshop and my energy is flagging. Not a good sign.

Peter is organizing the men into small groups for today’s activity. I have to tell myself that I’m just worn down from a long and intense week at the prison. A case of malaria could derail the whole project; I’m barely able to entertain the possibility. But as I think of the sanitary conditions of the prison and the amount of physical contact I’ve had with the men over the past three days, I fear it could be worse. Hepatitis A? Dysentery? For now, I sit on my stump and look toward Peter struggling to divide the large group.

We are stuffed into a large rectangular room that feels tight and cramped because of the huge number of men who’ve decided to join the theater project. This is Barracks Number Five. I had asked for a workshop space where we would be more or less free from the potentially disruptive gaze of nonparticipants and this is it.

I look out at the men, trying to remember at least some of their names. Many of the men are thin and muscular. Most are just thin — thin to the point of near emaciation. Their wrists and ankles look frail and their cheeks are hollow. For many, what should be the whites of their eyes are instead watery yellows, the sure sign of jaundice caused by Hepatitis A. This condition is not necessarily the product of incarceration; many free Ugandans look similar to these men. The poverty and living conditions are pretty much the same, and one is a likely to get sick on the outside as on the inside. And unlike in the U.S., where inmates have their food provided, here the men leave the prison each morning to work the fields (they call it “digging”), trying to grow their own crops, just the same as any other villager. Other than bags of grain for making porridge, the government sends food to the prison only when it has the resources to do so, which, apparently, is not regularly. Thus the men, conspicuous in their uniforms, ride out of the compound each morning and afternoon on a large flatbed truck to the prison-owned fields on the outskirts of town. (Incidentally, during one of my conversations with the O.C., a guard brought in a handful of the rice crop for inspection. It was of poor quality, as was the entire harvest. The O.C. held the rice in his hand. He and the guard stared at it, silent for a moment, distressed. They would go to town and try to sell what they could as animal feed. Neither man knew what they would do to feed the inmates.)

Most of the men wear the same uniform: a matching and loose-fitting pair of yellow shorts and t-shirts with thin, navy pinstripes. Others wear street clothes, most of it threadbare and just managing to hang together. I am the only person wearing shoes. The rest of the participants are respectful of the fact that they are working in the living and sleeping quarters of 80-100 of their fellow inmates. As is customary when entering someone’s home, they have taken off their plastic sandals and flip-flops at the door.

The concrete walls appear as if they once were white. Now they are streaked with black mold and the dark red clay that is common in the north. The room is dimly lit. The only light emanates from a single light bulb suspended from the low ceiling, and from the few sunbeams that manage to sneak between the iron bars that fill the frames of the paneless windows lining each side of the room. Here and there, small plastic water bottles sit on the sills or are suspended between the bars. They are filled or half-filled with urine. I’ve been told that climbing over a hundred men in the pitch-black night to reach the open latrine at the far end of the room is too difficult. Instead some use the plastic bottles for relief. As I sit on the stump watching Peter finish arranging the men in groups, I am acutely aware of the stench pervading the room. I have been able to block it out the past few days, but in my weakened state today I can’t ignore the overpowering admixture of body odor, urine and feces. I clutch my water bottle and will myself not to vomit. It is only eleven o’clock. I have another hour to get through before I can get back to my room and crash into my biscuit-thin, foam mattress.

The week had started well. After my initial meeting with the men on Monday I decided that — as per my training in applied- and community-based theater — my first goal was to build trust amongst us, and to see if I could foster a sense of community. Looking ahead, I wanted eventually to draw from the traditional stories of the Acholi tribe to create our presentation. The books that Dr. Ocitti had recommended were filled with a number of wonderful folktales. But to start the process of coming together, I needed to draw on my knowledge of Western theater tradition.

Edward T. Hall, in his book, “Beyond Culture,”[*] describes the differences between “high-context” and “low-context” cultures. Low-context cultures are those in which individual and personal information is considered most important for determining and understanding behavior. America and most Western cultures would be considered low-context. Most tribal societies, on the other hand, such as the Acholi, are high-context cultures, wherein the community is placed above that of the individual, and where social background information is considered important for predicting and understanding a person’s behavior. In short, individuality — the very concept of individuality itself — is not nearly as important a concept in high-context cultures as in low-context cultures.

Amongst the Acholi prisoners with whom I worked, these cultural models seemed also to apply in their approach to theater. The exemplars of Acholi theatrical expression are tribal, communal dances. While different participants take different roles in these dances, no premium is placed on individual “talent.” Traditional Western theater, by contrast, is quite interested in the psychology and trajectory of the individual character as well as in the charisma, even the virtuosity of the performer. To an American actor, for example, it is common — in fact, part of established models of training and rehearsal — to explore the psychology and inner motivations, not only of a particular character but also of oneself. I discovered that to an Acholi this is almost completely unknown, which, as I was to discover, is not to say unwelcome. I decided to introduce some inner exploration as part of our work.

When I entered the barracks on the first Tuesday of our workshop, the men, who had been sitting in two long rows against the walls of the room, rose silently to greet me. Having already spoken to them the day before, I decided to jump right in. I explained that many of the exercises we’d practice would be unfamiliar, and asked them if they were willing to try some new techniques. After Peter translated my words, the men nodded. What follows are some truncated descriptions of the exercises I introduced:

“Without making eye-contact with one another, walk around the space.” Peter translated and the men, smiling now, moved about the room. “You can notice the rest of the men enough so that you don’t bump into them, but you can also maintain a focus on yourself.” I paused.

My words were interrupted now and again by Peter, who looked so thin in his ripped and shiny green jacket that bore the stitched words, “Oklahoma City CYO” on the back and “Maria” on the front. The men were quiet now, the silence broken only by the shuffling of 200 feet.

The men opened their eyes and immediately broke into loud guffaws as they reconnected with one another after having sunk for a few moments into their inner worlds. Peter quieted them so that I could speak.

The men did so and found it difficult to repress their smiles. I was glad to see them having fun. After having them stop and close their eyes again, I asked them to walk in the space once more, this time saying “Afoyo” (“good morning” or sometimes “thank you”) to each man they passed, while at the same time making eye contact with that person. The men proceeded and seemed to have great fun, although it was impossible not to notice that none of the men would make eye contact with me.

“Stop! Close your eyes. Breathe. You know, I just want to remind you that I am part of the community, too. It’s O.K. to look at me in the eyes, too.”

The men broke into a kind of laughter that I have only heard with my Ugandan friends. It is a laughter that sounds to me as if they are surprised by a humorous comment. The laughter breaks slowly, starting as a kind of “eh” sound and unfolding into an “aaay” or “haaay” before breaking up into peals of truly joyous laughter. It’s as if they weren’t expecting a joke, but that now, having realized it, experience it as a slow, rolling revelation. The men were shouting “haaay” now, and laughing as if they had been caught. They knew they were avoiding me and seemed pleased that I was calling them out on it. We walked again and this time each man made a point to look directly into my eyes.

It was one of the most beautiful experiences of my entire time in Africa. In those few moments that the exercise occurred I felt truly connected to the men. So often our socialization compels us not to stare, or even to look, at someone who looks different from ourselves, as if our curiosity were a sin. And yet it seems the most natural thing to do. Every animal on the planet investigates and explores the unfamiliar, yet we humans pretend we’re not attracted to, not curious to explore, those who look and act so differently. And now, here we were, looking at one another, giving permission to be looked at. They saw a tall, thin White man with a high forehead and a thick goatee. I wore a silver hoop in each ear and looked at them with pale blue eyes. And I saw 100 dark-skinned Black men, round-faced with deep brown and black eyes and shining white teeth. They were, for the most part, shorter than me but some were as tall. Most were very thin but some, the dancers, were thick and muscular. They were beautiful and different from anyone I had ever seen, even from the Ugandans who lived in Kampala and the south. These were the Acholi, members of the Nilotic tribe whose people extend into Sudan and Ethiopia. I was aware in that moment of what it felt like to just have permission to look at one another like this. To give each other permission to satisfy our curiosity about this “other.” As we passed one another, we really looked. Some smiled. Some seemed to scan my face, trying to look deep into my eyes. Some of us nodded to one another. Some men looked away quickly.

In silence we all asked, “Who are you?” We were beginning to form our relationship…

Despite a lot of giggling and even trepidation, the response to “inner work” was tremendously exciting. The “check-in” — first with themselves and then with the larger group — was something we came to do each day. It seemed to ground the men, and by the time we would finish they seemed ready and eager to move into the day’s work.

The first week was devoted to community building and skill building. Each day I added layers to things we had previously done. I introduced an image-theater series that I lifted from Boal’s “Games for Actors and Non-Actors,” in which the men sculpted one another into various iconic figures, such as “friend,” “brother” or “priest.” Then we moved from literal representations to more abstract concepts like “love,” “hate,” “joy” or “anger.” Whenever I told them to “unfreeze,” the exercise would conclude with cheering, hand slapping and several moments of laughter and conversation. While debriefing after the exercise some of the men expressed gratitude, saying they had never known there was a system for accessing emotion within themselves for the purposes of theatrical representation.

I was glad to see that some of the men were responding positively to these initial techniques. Building on the image exercises, the men started to work in groups to create tableaux based on various real-life scenes, such as “wedding” or “home” or “bus park.” While they enjoyed the collaborative and creative process, we ran into a roadblock when I asked them to improvise dialogue for the characters they were portraying in the tableau. For a long time, the men were able only to describe literally what the character was doing; they couldn’t seem to access an imaginary inner world.

For example, one group created a funeral scene. When I prompted one to speak a word or phrase in his character’s voice, he said, “I am the priest, praying for the dead.” Another said, “I am the mother who mourns the child.” Never did the actor enter the mind of character and say something like, “Oh! My child! My child!” I tried to explain the concept for over a half an hour. They just couldn’t seem to understand what I was getting at. Peter understood but he was having a hard time communicating it to the men. I gave examples. I took my water bottle and began to pretend I was drinking. “Now when I am drinking this water, I am not thinking, ‘I am drinking water.’ I am drinking water.” The men laughed. “I could be thinking about anything. I might be drinking the water but thinking about an appointment I’m late for … or about the fact that I have to go to the bank. Anything.” Some of the men eventually caught on, replaced the men in the image, and demonstrated for the rest of the group. Once the others saw the demonstration, something clicked. They seemed to make the connection that their thoughts did more than simply comment on their actions. For many of them, particularly the ones who would go on to take leading roles in the dramas, it was quite thrilling to have this hidden thing revealed. One told me that he felt as though he were “looking at his mind.”

For my part, I could never have imagined that something as seemingly commonplace as being aware of one’s inner dialogue could be so inaccessible. It made me think again about the idea of high- and low-context cultures and how important it is to recognize that people can experience the world in vastly different ways. I was a taken somewhat aback by one of the officers’ response to me when I expressed my wonder at it. “Poor people haven’t the time to think about thoughts,” he said plainly. “They have too much to do.”

The sculpting and image work took the whole of Tuesday and Wednesday, and now I felt ready to start moving into some of the material I hoped the men would be familiar with. But I was getting weaker by the minute and felt I had to rely on Peter to help make this transition. He had split the men into 20 groups of five. Each group was given a well-known proverb.

Through the work of Dr. Ocitti, and after reading the book “Song of Lawino,” I came to understand that proverbs play a large role in transmitting cultural and moral values amongst the Acholi. “Lawino”is organized around one of the Acholi proverbs, “Ter okon bong’ luputu,” which translates roughly as “the pumpkin in the old homestead must not be uprooted.” At one time, pumpkins grew wild in the region, and were seen as important fixtures on each family’s plot of land. In “Lawino,” the phrase is repeated as a plea from the wife, Lawino, to her husband, Ocol. The proverb is used as a metaphor to implore Ocol not to turn his back on his people and their customs for the alluring promise of Western modernity. I was struck by this saying and its various meanings. Obviously, there are poignant echoes of Lawino’s plea today as more and more people are swept into the postcolonial trends of globalization, which disrupt and destabilize traditional cultures. Over time, people lose the ability to try to sustain their heritage in the face of what seems like the inevitability of Western hegemony. These patterns are evident in northern Uganda. I thought to use it and other proverbs as tools for generating discussion and for moving into an exploration of Acholi folktales for the purpose of mining themes for the creation of our dramas.

But not today. I have to go lie down. I ask Peter to give each group one of the proverbs I had copied from Professor Ocitti’s book, and to have them begin working together to create images. I remind him that the groups were to be a bit secretive since the game was to be one in which the men would try to guess which proverb the others were trying to embody. I apologize for leaving a bit early and make my way back to the convent.

I never knew definitively if I had malaria. My guess is not, but whatever I had, I was forced to call the O.C. on Friday morning and ask if he would let the men work without me. Thankfully, he agreed. I spent the next three days in bed or at the hospital. My fever spiked to 105 degrees. I vomited. I had chills so bad my teeth chattered. My joints ached so badly I could barely stand. When I couldn’t lie in bed any longer, I called my friends at the NGO to see if they had any DVDs I could watch on my computer. I felt guilty about watching American TV in Africa, but I admit that I thoroughly enjoyed lying on the couch and watching an entire season of “The Office” over the course of the weekend. I didn’t feel 100% on Monday morning but I felt that I had to go to the prison. As my health and strength slowly returned, I suddenly felt that we were behind schedule.

When I arrive at the prison on Monday, I am called into the O.C.’s office. He is genuinely concerned about my health and asks if I’m feeling better. When I tell him about my weekend he replies with a simple but heartfelt expression of condolence common to the people here: “Sorry,” he says. I’ve gotten the impression from all of the Ugandans that each one feels a personal responsibility for my malaria (or whatever it is). They are very proud of their country and to have a guest fall ill in it seems to be a source of concern, if not a small amount of shame. I explain that I’m feeling better and he informs me that, due to some administrative duties, he needs to move up the date of the performance. Instead of happening in ten days, it’s going to happen in seven — a week from tomorrow. I don’t know what to say. This changes everything. We haven’t even begun to create anything. I feel panicked but there’s nothing I can do. It is what it is. I thank the O.C. and head quickly through the courtyard toward the barracks.

When I arrive, I receive my second shock of the morning, this one more pleasant. Peter is leading the warm-ups already, taking the men through the check-in. I am impressed. Clearly, my absence allowed the men to take some control of the proceedings. He apologizes but says he wasn’t sure if I was coming today. I tell him how happy I am that he feels able to lead the men. “If this program is going to continue when I leave,” I tell him, “you have to be able to do all of this.” He agrees.

I tell him about the date change and he appears unconcerned. I ask if the men had presented their proverb images yet. He says they haven’t and so I ask him to get the men ready to begin. One by one, the groups get up to show their proverb tableaux. The images range from literal to abstract, and the other men have a hard time guessing them. I try to ask some questions about what they see in the sculptures, and to explain to them that it is more about the analysis than about guessing correctly. But the energy in the room begins to flag, and some of the men begin to leave the room. The group gets smaller and smaller until, after about 20 minutes, there are only about 40 men in the room. I feel awful, as if I’ve done something wrong. Is the exercise so boring and, if so, should I just abandon it without giving all the groups a chance to present?

I can’t figure out what’s going on until I ask Peter. He tells me that the men are embarrassed that they can’t guess the images and they think they are failing. Instead of seeing it as a fun game, they are seeing it as a sign of ineptitude on their part. I decide I can’t address this right now because the men who have stayed are engaged in lively debate with one another about what the statues might mean. I decide that I need to continue and engage these men who seem excited by the intellectual discussion.

The men discuss the deeper meaning of each phrase with one another, and give particular attention to “Ter okon bong’ luputu.” Many inmates know of P’Bitek’s book, and a few had read it. One of the two white-haired men in our group stands and explains to the others how important P’Bitek’s book was when he was young. He gives a brief history lesson and the others listen respectfully. Some of the younger men express a feeling that the “pumpkins” of their culture are already uprooted and that there is nothing to be done about the fact. I am excited about the discussion because I think it might lead us toward our ultimate goal of creating original theater.

I ask the participants if they would be interested in extending our exploration of cultural meaning by delving into some of the local folktales. (As I mentioned in the second part of this series, the Acholi folktales are moralistic tales enacted by animal characters.) I explain to the men that I have an idea to attempt to transform the tales into contemporary, human stories that maintain the lesson or moral of the original. I’m a bit concerned that I’m driving the direction of the program too much, but time feels suddenly short. Furthermore, the men seem genuinely enthusiastic about the idea. It is, of course, hard to tell if they are going along in order to please me, but I can only take them at their word. Since I don’t know any of the folktales, I propose that anyone who knows one, tell it to the rest of the group.

When the word goes out that some of the men will be telling folktales, the room fills again. The men line the perimeter of the room, backs against the walls. One by one, individuals come forth, sit on the floor in the center of the room, and tell their stories, much to the delight of the other inmates. The men become as animated and expressive as I’ve seen them. The storytellers play to the audience, using rhythm, song and different character voicing to add rich textures to their storytelling. The audience laughs and cheers at each twist and turn of the plot, despite the fact that they tell me later that they know each story word-for-word. What they enjoy is each storyteller’s particular way of relating the tale.

During the ensuing debriefing session, the storytellers and inmates say they are quite proud to have been able to share pieces of their culture with me. The men tell their stories for half the day on Monday and for the almost the entire session on Tuesday. I feel somewhat anxious about time but I also see how much enjoyment the men are getting from sharing these stories with one another. I need to remind myself that this is not about the performance. I know the administration expects something rehabilitative, but the truth is: This is it! To me, the process is the work. The process is the rehabilitation. Just before leaving for the day I tell Peter that the men need to work quickly to decide which of the many folktales would be transformed into the human stories. He says they will work into the night to decide. Before I can remind him, he tells me he will tell the men to bear in mind the content of the original lessons contained in the stories.

I am pleased that Peter is so invested. He has been here six years. He is still on remand, awaiting trial, and one of the guards tells me that his accusers have rescinded their accusations. Still, Peter is incarcerated. I don’t understand. He has sad eyes and wants to make the most of his time here. He is determined to continue the drama program when I leave.

As I walk back to the convent, I feel as though my work is more or less finished at the prison. Of course, I’ll continue to play a role, and I’ll keep going to the prison each morning, but Peter is the leader now. He knows what the goal is and he is eager to guide the men. It doesn’t make sense for me to be the primary voice in the process now. Having Peter translate everything would be tedious and unnecessary in devising the works. They know the material and Peter is more than capable of shaping the stories.

For the remaining days, my role becomes more consultative and less hands-on. Peter often asks me to look at a scene or to help the men transform a particular part of the story, but more than anything I am content to sit on my stump or pace around the rehearsal space and watch the men working together. They smile when I pass or stop me with their hands so that I will watch their vignette. It’s a beautiful process to witness, and it is amazing to think that it was less than two weeks ago that we started this whole thing.

On the day of the performance, ominous thunderclouds hover over the prison. We’ve been having heavy rain for weeks, but we haven’t had any in about three days. Now it looks like that’s about to change. We were supposed to perform in the courtyard, but we are quickly transporting everything back into the barracks. It is extremely chaotic. The room is not ready. Nonparticipants who live in the space are sleeping on their mats. Inmates are running back and forth, trying to organize quickly. It wouldn’t be that stressful for them except for the fact that my American friends (including my wife) have been invited and are waiting in the O.C.’s office. The men are very excited to have outsiders to perform for. This is always true in the U.S. prisons, too. I think that having “civilians” as witnesses to their work does something to reaffirm their sense of being human, of being part of the greater community. I think they feel that their work is not simply lost in the dark and forgotten halls of the prison, but is made real by the presence of outsiders.

The performance lasts 3 ½ hours. Only about half of the men who had participated in the workshop have parts to play in the presentation, either in one or more of the traditional dances, or in one of the dramas. The audience, therefore, is made up of about 50 non-performing participants, 100 to 150 nonparticipant inmates, myself and six American guests, and about a dozen prison guards. The performance is divided in three parts. The first two are almost identical to those of the performance I witnessed back in January. The men perform traditional dances and contemporary songs, both accompanied by various African instruments. The third part, of course, consists of three original dramas that the men have created from their local folktales — the focus of our collaboration.

We’ve decided that for the sake of clarity, one man will come before the audience and tell the tale in its original form as a way to contextualize what is to come. As I watch, I am impressed by the work of the men, and surprised by how rich their stories have become. For the inmate audience, the plays are hugely entertaining. The spoken tale is greeted with smiling and laughter as the narrator recounts the familiar story. The vignettes that follow are received at first with a bit of confusion; the slightly furrowed brows of the inmates suggest an attempt to figure out how this is the same story they know so well. But as the skit continues, the crowd becomes fully engaged — laughing and applauding with passion. Each skit’s ending produces loud cheering and several minutes of boisterous conversation between guards and inmates as they go over the different events in the play. The actors tell me later that they were both surprised and delighted by the audience’s response. They admit that until the reception of their work, they were unsure if what they had created would make sense to or be interesting to their peers.

The performance lasts so long that we are forced to finish before we are able to debrief about the event. It was agreed that the performance would mark my final visit to the prison but I convince the administration that it is imperative that I return the next day to debrief, not only about the performance but about the entire project.

During the debrief, the men speak humbly and intensely. The comments, some a bit cryptic in translation, are filled with gratitude: “Never could I have imagined that it was possible to make a play like this. I know the direction forward now.” “You have shown us a way to use our own stories to create the drama.” One of the old men, the same one who explained “Lawino”to the younger inmates, stands and solemnly thanks me for coming to Uganda. He asks me to send my greetings “to those people there [the people in America]” and to “congratulate them for their lives.” He then thanks me for reintroducing these folktales to the community and showing them the heritage they all shared, one that had been nearly severed by the “long years of conflict.” A young man who had taken a leading role in one of the folktales stands and tells the group that they have a “responsibility to the younger generations to teach them the customs of the people.” He promises that when he is released he will work with the youth and teach them these and other dramas based on the Acholi stories. The men continue to stand and make similar comments for over an hour. At the conclusion of the sharing, I thank the men: “Afoyo. Afoyo matek!” — “Thank you. Thanks a lot!” I circle the room and shake hands with each man. The workshop is over.

Now at the end of many words and many pages in which I’ve tried to describe my experience in Uganda, I’m not sure how to conclude. What strikes me right now is that as I sit on my soft couch in Brooklyn, warm and protected from the rain that falls outside tonight, typing all of this on my personal computer, is that most of the men I came to know are still in there. They are still imprisoned, still sleeping on hard floors and covered by thin blankets. They are still eating porridge and waiting for the day they will be released. And most likely, there’s been no continuation of the work we did there. I’m sure that they find some time here and there to practice their dances, but without an outside catalyst, it is doubtful that three hours per day would be devoted to theater or arts. Peter had told me on many occasions how the worst part of prison was the boredom, and the hopelessness that it gave rise to. I imagine — or at least hope — that someday someone will realize that the confinement and seemingly endless amounts of time that oppress prisoners could instead be utilized for cultural and artistic development as a means of preparing inmates to leave prison with a sense of value and with experiential knowledge that can breathe life into all of the communities to which they belong. I see that beginning to happen in various pockets here in the U.S. through the work of Buzz Alexander and the PCAP program in Michigan; of Katherine Vockins and R.T.A. in New York; of Agnes Wilcox and Prison Performing Arts in Missouri; of Appalshop in Virginia and Kentucky; and in the work of dedicated artists, educators and organizations across the country.

I don’t know what’s happening in prisons in the rest of sub-Saharan Africa. I can only report that in Uganda, prison theater is not “catching on.” This experience was an anomaly that came about only through a series of fortuitous encounters, my own volunteer history in New York that allowed me to negotiate my way inside, and an administration that was open enough and courageous enough to allow this kind of program to come into the prison. My hope in writing this series of articles has been twofold. First, I hope that it might encourage artists to push themselves into unfamiliar situations — even scary ones — to try to bring their love and their passion to people who long for it.

While my experience in Uganda may have been uncommon, it was not difficult. I think that if one has some experience in the field and the ability to follow through on what is promised, there are organizations and institutions everywhere that would be very receptive to volunteers who are driven by a desire to do good for others. Second, and to me more important, I hope that readers will understand that on a fundamental level, prisoners are no different from anyone else. Their mistakes may have been bigger, but their humanity is of equal size and value. In many instances — at least with those whom I’ve been lucky enough to work with — the inmate’s sense of accountability and responsibility puts the typical “man on the street” to shame. The men I’ve had the honor to work with — whether in the U.S. or Africa — are not looking to duck responsibility. They find their way to the creative and performing arts because they are invested in their own growth and see the arts as a potential tool for positive change. They see theater as an outlet to release the frustration and anger that can only fester and spoil under the punitive bureaucracies that dominate modern criminal “justice.”

I’ll always remember what one of my friends said to me in New York after being denied parole for the sixth time: “They keep saying ‘nature of the crime,’ Kev, but I don’t know what to tell them. The nature of the crime will never change. I don’t care if I’m in here for 200 years; the nature of my crime will never change. The only thing that can change is me, and I’ve done everything I can do in here to bring about that change…”

Theater in prisons allows incarcerated individuals to change. It allows them to see themselves in a new light, defined not only by the worst thing they have ever done in their lives, but as the sum of all of their experiences and actions — just as we would all hope to be seen. Theater in prisons allows people to imagine that they have value and to imagine that they could make a positive impact in the world, if only given the chance. We can only hope that theater and arts in prisons can help the criminal-justice system and the rest of society to imagine those things as well.

Kevin M. Bott is a doctoral student in the Educational Theatre program at New York University where he is studying arts partnerships between academic institutions and the communities in which they are situated. He is particularly interested in theater as an educational and empowerment tool for individuals returning to mainstream society after having served time in prison. Bott is a volunteer with a New York-based nonprofit, Rehabilitation Through the Arts (RTA), with which he has facilitated prison theater programs since 2006. He is also founder and lead facilitator of The Contact Project, a theater program housed in a New York City outpatient clinic serving formerly incarcerated and drug-dependent individuals.

* Hall, E.T., "Beyond Culture" (Garden City, New York: Anchor Press, 1976)

Original CAN/API publication: November 2007

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Notes on Prison Theater in Northern Uganda, Part 3

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