The Malta Independent on Sunday
Father’s Day behind bars
While many children are dedicating today to their fathers, some fathers have only a very limited amount of time to spend with their children. John*, father of four-year old ANDREW*, is serving a 23-year prison sentence for marijuana trafficking and only g
*Names have been changed
Andrew was only six months old when his father was sentenced to prison, meaning that John missed out on some of the most significant moments of parenthood: the first words, the first steps; the first day at school. Andrew is about to turn five in August and, inevitably, is starting to ask questions about his father’s absence, asking him when he’ll be home and when he’ll tuck him into bed. Inmates are allowed 45 minutes visits every Tuesday and Sunday.
John does worry about the possibility of Andrew being bullied, given his father’s situation. “As they grow older, children start talking amongst themselves, telling their friends what they did over the weekend. Eventually, his class mates will start asking about his father.”
John is given permission to go home once a year, on his son’s birthday and is already looking forward to the next visit. His time with his son is, however, limited, resulting in a bittersweet experience. “When it’s time to leave, Andrew clutches onto me, asking me if I have to leave just yet. It’s painful, having a taste of home, knowing that soon you’ll be confined behind the prison walls again.”
If his prison term is not reduced, John’s little boy will be an adult by the time his father is released. “I worry that, later on in life, he’ll blame me for not being there, and what am I supposed to say to that?
“It’s not being there during the most important moments that is most painful,” he says. If it is necessary for their children to be hospitalised, then prison inmates are allowed to visit them, but John says that is hard being stuck in prison, not knowing what is going on that is most difficult.
He recalls the moment he learnt that he was going to be a father, back before he was convicted. “The experience is unique, noth- ing else compares to it.” He admits that he would have loved to have had more children, but he has to accept the fact that it’s highly unlikely now.
“Once you’ve been here almost five years, it starts getting even more difficult – one Christmas goes by, then it’s summer, then it’s Christmas all over again – and you realise you’re missing out on so much. Prison life is psychologically shattering and it’s when you’ve been here for some time that it starts getting worse. For the first few months, you don’t even know what’s hit you, the place is strange and the other inmates are aliens to you.
“If there’s one thing money doesn’t buy, it’s time. Simply looking outside the police van, I realised so much has changed. It’s a completely different life out there – I can’t imagine what it will be like in 20 years’ time.”
John regrets not knowing simple day-day facts about his son: his favourite food, or his favourite cartoon character. “I do ask his mother, but it’s all second-hand information, in no way does it compare to the real thing.”
In John’s absence, Andrew’s mother needs to shoulder the responsibilities of both parents – and it proves challenging not only psychologically, but also financially. She explains how the students at Andrew’s school had the chance to purchase a Father’s Day present for their father – a keychain or a wallet – neither of which is allowed in prison. “At this age, we lie to protect him, but for how long can we keep it up?” she asked.
John keeps a collection of photos of Andrew in his cell. “I look at them during the darkest of times” he says, tears filling his eyes. When I ask him what his ideal Father’s Day would be, John does not aim high, but says he yearns for the simplest of things – spending time with his son in the playground and having a meal with his family.