When South African political activist Jeremy Cronin was imprisoned by the State in 1976, because of his work with banned anti-apartheid organisations, he turned to writing poetry. In one, Cronin described a wordless interaction between himself and a fellow inmate:

“I see the fingertips of his free hand
Bunch together, as if to make
An object the size of a badge
Which travels up to his forehead
The place of an imaginary cap.
(This means: A warder.)”

Motho Ke Motho Ke Batho Babang (A Person Is a Person Because of Other People) – Jeremy Cronin

Nearly 50 years on, the scene is the subject of lively discussion in what was, two minutes ago, a quiet classroom. About 22 men in dark blue or orange uniforms are astonished to discover that the same gestures they use today to warn each other of a warder’s presence have such a long history. 

Their fellow students, a handful of young women in casual civvies, are laughing as the men take turns demonstrating this and other warning gestures. Even the warders, who a few minutes ago looked dangerously close to falling asleep in the chairs that circle the room, have roused themselves and are laughing.

/Brandvlei Correctional Centre/

One of the stars of Inside the World’s Toughest Prisons (Netflix) sits on the bank of the Brandvlei Dam, which contributes 50 percent of the Langeberg Municipality raw water supply, and home to 3,020 inmates across maximum security, medium security and juvenile units.

Welcome to the Ubuntu Learning Community (ULC), where in-students – you and me might call them “inmates”, but more on that in a moment – and out-students, who are pursuing various degrees at nearby Stellenbosch University and will not, after this lesson, be shepherded back to cells by the warders, come together to learn about literature, economics, history and law.

The inter-disciplinary short course, which spans 14 weeks in all, is accredited by Stellenbosch University. For the out-students, it’s a match designed to light the spark that might lead them further into higher education, either while still incarcerated or, for those serving shorter sentences, when they walk out of the Brandvlei Correctional Centre for what they hope is the last time.

ULC Graduation Ceremony 2022 (Image: Stellenbosch University)

My first conversation with the ULC’s academic director Dr Mary Nel got off to a bad start. I wanted to know more about the inmates. She politely but firmly interrupted me: “We call them ‘in-students’.” Part of the programme’s mission is to break down stereotypes, so “words are important – they create impressions and a narrative.” Nel knows what people think of the in-students. 

“(I’m often asked) ‘Why are you bothering with these people? Shouldn’t we just lock them up and throw away the key?’ OK, but who do we want to come out (of prison)? Bitter, unhappy people with no skills, no network, almost doomed to return?”

South Africa’s recidivism rates are reportedly among the highest in the world, though precise figures are hard to come by. Estimates suggest the rate of reoffending may be as high as 90 percent; 2008 research claimed that, within a three-year period after release, about two thirds of ex-offenders return to prison after committing new crimes. 

There is no silver bullet for addressing recidivism, but a large body of research from around the world (including South Africa) suggests a positive correlation between educational programmes in prisons and lower reoffending rates.

/recidivism/

A relapse into criminal behaviour

Nel, a senior lecturer in criminal law at Stellenbosch University, obtained a master’s in criminology from Cambridge University. Five years ago, a former Cambridge classmate who had started a prison-university partnership in the UK asked whether Nel would meet up with an American colleague doing similar work. 

So, she did – but was taken aback when that colleague, Professor Baz Dreisinger of the City University of New York suggested that Nel look into starting a prison education programme in South Africa. “My immediate response was, ‘It’s not going to work here.’ Then I thought, ‘why am I automatically rejecting this?’” 

A seed had been planted and, in May 2018, the ULC held its first brainstorming session at Brandvlei; as the Western Cape province’s designated learning hub, and with a fair number of inmates already studying through the University of South Africa (Unisa, the African continent’s largest open distance learning institution) it was the ideal place to start. 

Data source: World Prison Brief

Lecturers and students from Stellenbosch University met up with a group of those Unisa students and formulated the theme for a 2019 course. There were hiccups over the following months, including some opposition from individuals within the Department of Correctional Services, which oversees prisons. 

Those concerns allayed, Nel managed to secure funding from Stellenbosch University’s Social Impact Division, as well as the Law Faculty. The first course was “a great success” and everything was on track for 2020.

“Then came Covid,” says Nel, wryly. She spent the latter half of 2020 negotiating with the Department of Correctional Services to arrange online access for the next crop of in-students. In 2021 there was no face-to-face teaching, but ULC organised online workshops featuring, among others, Stellenbosch University Chancellor and former Constitutional Court Justice Edwin Cameron – who is also the Inspecting Judge for the Judicial Inspectorate for Correctional Services. 

The country’s former Deputy Chief Justice Dikgang Moseneke, himself a former political prisoner, was another popular guest speaker and donated copies of his autobiography to the students. 

“These are good things to offer people in prison,” Nel says.

ULC Graduation Ceremony 2022 (Image: Stellenbosch University)

Now it’s September 2022 and I, alongside this year’s short course cohorts, am learning about literature from another Stellenbosch University lecturer, Dr Daniel Roux. 

This year none of the in-students are enrolled for higher education. They have all completed matric, “some many years ago”, explains Nel. “So, it’s a very different classroom, with different dynamics. (But as with the first class), the engagements are rich and fruitful. We can spark an interest in higher education, in some students. We hope to be able to offer bursaries so people can study through Unisa.”

Apart from that diversion into the role of hand gestures in prison communication, poetry analysis was not a hit. 

“Why do you think poetry is a common genre (to be written and read) in prison?” Roux asked earlier. At the table nearest to me, a broad-shouldered young man in a nattily tailored orange uniform muttered, “Because it’s boring.”

Exchange between a lecturer and student

But Roux has turned the discussion to this year’s main text, Jonny Steinberg’s The Number. It’s a non-fiction account of one man’s journey through South African prisons and its notorious prison gangs. Nobody is bored now. 

We’re talking about protagonist, Magadien Wentzel’s narrative – his “confession”, as Roux puts it, and why one might confess. The in-students all agree that they don’t trust Wentzel’s motives. Did he tell Steinberg his story in a bid to earn money, they wonder. 

The out-students take a gentler view. One of them describes the Catholic ritual of confession; an in-student talks about the “relief” of coming clean. 

Then, quite suddenly, we’re not talking about literature at all. An in-student who hasn’t previously spoken wants to tell us about the time he feared confession.

“My mom gave me money to pay school fees, but I stole the money and spent it all on games.” He knew the school would phone home and query the unpaid fees.

He was terrified of being beaten by his mother – his resigned tone makes it clear this wasn’t unusual – and so he ran off to find a bridge: “I thought of killing myself.”

He was 7 at the time.

/ubuntu/

The belief in a universal bond of sharing that connects all humanity

“Ubuntu” is a South African concept. It’s about humanness at its best, encompassing our greatest virtues, like humanity and compassion. It’s most often captured, in various of the country’s 11 official languages, in the title of Cronin’s poem: a person is a person because of other people. And it’s central to the ULC’s mission, as it is to the programme’s name.

“We are about rehumanisation through collaborative, transformative learning. We don’t just want to focus on education behind bars,” says Nel. “The second angle is about reintegration – we keep in touch with (previous and current) students so they’re part of a supportive, pro-social community. We have a WhatsApp group with most of the 2019 class; most of them are out (of prison) now.”

Grant money from a US university will not only support planned reunion events; it’s also used to pay for former in-students’ further studies. And it’s the reason that a very tall man named Kody* is sitting next to me during this class: he’s the ULC’s reintegration leader, tasked with talking other former in-students and the current crop through their fears around life beyond the bars. He was part of the 2019 cohort and is close to finishing a law degree, which he’s juggling with his ULC work “and being a dad”. 

I ask how he coped with being in a cell since he’s easily over two metres tall. He grins, easily, and says it wasn’t too bad. What kind of law will he focus on when he’s qualified? “Definitely not the criminal stuff. It’s human rights for me.”

Data source: World Prison Brief

If all of this sounds like running a prison education programme is easy, Nel is quick to dispel the myth. Even in the beginning, during that first brainstorming session back in 2018, the prospective in-students were suspicious of outsiders. 

“They were unsure what to expect; you get so many people coming into the prison with different projects. (Kody) told me afterwards that he and the others expected to be viewed like ‘monkeys in a cage’ by us and the out-students. Instead, he was blown away by how he and the other participants were treated.”

Prisons have their own rhythms and rituals. Sometimes, Nel says, rules will be changed arbitrarily – at one-point students suddenly couldn’t access electronic study material after 2pm. 

But, partly through their experience with the ULC, in-students feel empowered to speak up about their rights. One of the 2019 cohort, who graduated summa cum laude with a law degree and is no longer incarcerated, wrote a memo to Justice Cameron about how education behind bars can be improved. 

There are smaller niggles, too: in-students housed in the medium or maximum-security sections sometimes come to class without their pens and books. “I have no idea where they’ve gone. They don’t go into detail.”

Despite the hitches, over time a strong partnership has developed between provincial Department of Correctional Services leaders, individuals at Brandvlei and Stellenbosch University. The out-students are also an integral part of the programme. 

Some may have initially worried about interacting with their new classmates but “then in the classroom it just … goes naturally” says Nel. She’s right: there’s an easy camaraderie between the students, with the out-students often gently urging their peers to speak up, to offer an opinion or insight. 

I overhear some casual discussions about whether men or women spend more time getting ready for dates. Nel and one of the out-students have to leave early because the student is writing an exam – everybody applauds, whistles, wishes her good luck.

ULC Graduation 2022 (Image: Stellenbosch University)

During what would usually be a refreshment break (today the tuckshop in this part of the prison grounds is closed for stocktaking), the conversations continue. Kody introduces me to Zama* and Winston*. The former recently ‘graduated’ into the adult section of the prison because he turned 25 and is sporting the orange uniform that denotes this status. 

His collar is popped, and the legs of his pants taper perfectly. A number of prisoners are skilled tailors – money or a carton of cigarettes will earn you their services. Winston seems shy about revealing his age, but his dark blue uniform tells me he’s still in the youth section. They’re both rugby players. 

We spend a few minutes discussing the Springboks, then lamenting the dire state of men’s cricket. They seem sympathetic when they discover I support Leeds United. 

Both are due to appear before the in-house parole board soon and seem upbeat about their chances of being released. They’ll be reunited with supportive families who have visited them regularly throughout their prison terms and Winston, for one, would like to study further. 

He was surprised to discover how much he enjoyed the economics module and thinks his future might lie in business. He’s also holding his homework from a previous session; I ask if I might take a look. It’s a sort of mind map carefully plotted on a piece of cardboard that’s been flattened out. It contains his dreams and hopes for a life outside Brandvlei. 

“This looks great. I think it’s going to happen for you,” I say as we part ways and settle in for the last session. He smiles, looking suddenly very young. “Thank you. I hope so.”

This article was written as part of explain.co.za’s Lede Fellowship with the Solutions Journalism Network.

*Names have been changed for privacy