Born Behind Bars
Article for the Sunday Observer Magazine February 2010
Being pregnant and in prison forces a woman to prepare for the worst.Will she receive the treatment she needs? Will she be able to get outof her cell if labour starts? And, most poignantly, will she be able tokeep her baby? Four new mothers tell their inside stories
Article for the Sunday Observer Magazine February 2010
Being pregnant and in prison forces a woman to prepare for the worst.Will she receive the treatment she needs? Will she be able to get outof her cell if labour starts? And, most poignantly, will she be able tokeep her baby? Four new mothers tell their inside stories
Between 2005 and 2008, 283 babies were born in British prisons. Somemothers recall going into labour at night, to the sound of fighting.Many babies were delivered through emergency caesarean; many were bornwith prison officers in the doorway, in uniform, looking on.
Keirais 18 months old and eating chopped cherries with hot little hands.Sitting in her bright third-floor flat, her mother Lorraine Reid, whowas released from prison when Keira was seven months old, fussessilently, offering her buttered bread, pulling down Keira's cardigansleeves, proud, anxious – and something else, less familiar. Along-term substance abuser, she was convicted of theft and, in February2008, sentenced to a year in Holloway Prison, which houses one ofEngland's eight mother-and-baby units. Reid was typical of the 12,000women who pass through prison each year – a third have young children(her son and daughter, both under 10, were given up for adoption), athird are single parents, 58% have used drugs daily, and 68% are in fora non-violent offence. Reid, who sits tight and upright, relaxes onlywhen holding her child. The living room is white and clean, decoratedwith silver framed photographs of Keira, and a miniature pink drum kit.Keira leaps from toy to toy, and her tiny trainers flash pink lights.
In2007, Nigerian national Ivie had her flat raided after a routine checkat the hospital where she had worked for five years revealed that herpapers were fake. She was five months pregnant. Ivie can't beidentified, for fear of deportation, but is keen to talk: about herrequests for a late-term abortion after seeing other prisonersmiscarry, about being rushed to hospital from the police station, andseparated from her two older children for six weeks. "I was scared I'dlose the baby," she whispers. "Women there were miscarrying, or havingvery premature babies. I didn't want a baby born into this environment."
Herpregnancy was eased, she says, by the support of Birth Companions.Denise Marshall runs the charity, providing assistance to pregnantwomen in detention – last year they worked with 94 women in Holloway,including Reid. This is their 14th year. They visit prisoners once aweek and stay with them throughout the birth; afterwards, as prisonersaren't allowed a camera, they take photos of the baby for them to sendto their family.
"Oftenthe women in Holloway have had very difficult life experiences," saysMarshall. "The Corston Report highlighted the high rates of abuse,violence, mental illness and drug dependency experienced by women inprison. However, pregnancy does seem to offer some the possibility ofmaking a new start with their baby. One young mum only found out shewas pregnant the day she arrived in prison. She told us how reassuringshe had found it being able to come to a group with other pregnantwomen every week, to focus on the baby and also talk about herworries." As well as the usual fears for survival in prison, pregnantconvicts worry, Marshall says, about whether their doors will beunlocked in time and whether, in labour, they'll get carried away withthe pain, and swear at the prison officers, and get disciplined.
Agovernment review of the children of offenders concluded that they "arean 'invisible' group: there is no shared, robust information on whothey are, little awareness of their needs and no systematic support".Reid says she hasn't decided when, or even if she'll tell her daughterthat she was born behind bars. How will her first few nights affect therest of Keira's life?
We interviewed four ex-convicts, includingDonna McLeish, who was shackled during her pregnancy, and asked themhow it felt to bring up their babies behind bars.
Keirais 18 months old and eating chopped cherries with hot little hands.Sitting in her bright third-floor flat, her mother Lorraine Reid, whowas released from prison when Keira was seven months old, fussessilently, offering her buttered bread, pulling down Keira's cardigansleeves, proud, anxious – and something else, less familiar. Along-term substance abuser, she was convicted of theft and, in February2008, sentenced to a year in Holloway Prison, which houses one ofEngland's eight mother-and-baby units. Reid was typical of the 12,000women who pass through prison each year – a third have young children(her son and daughter, both under 10, were given up for adoption), athird are single parents, 58% have used drugs daily, and 68% are in fora non-violent offence. Reid, who sits tight and upright, relaxes onlywhen holding her child. The living room is white and clean, decoratedwith silver framed photographs of Keira, and a miniature pink drum kit.Keira leaps from toy to toy, and her tiny trainers flash pink lights.
In2007, Nigerian national Ivie had her flat raided after a routine checkat the hospital where she had worked for five years revealed that herpapers were fake. She was five months pregnant. Ivie can't beidentified, for fear of deportation, but is keen to talk: about herrequests for a late-term abortion after seeing other prisonersmiscarry, about being rushed to hospital from the police station, andseparated from her two older children for six weeks. "I was scared I'dlose the baby," she whispers. "Women there were miscarrying, or havingvery premature babies. I didn't want a baby born into this environment."
Herpregnancy was eased, she says, by the support of Birth Companions.Denise Marshall runs the charity, providing assistance to pregnantwomen in detention – last year they worked with 94 women in Holloway,including Reid. This is their 14th year. They visit prisoners once aweek and stay with them throughout the birth; afterwards, as prisonersaren't allowed a camera, they take photos of the baby for them to sendto their family.
"Oftenthe women in Holloway have had very difficult life experiences," saysMarshall. "The Corston Report highlighted the high rates of abuse,violence, mental illness and drug dependency experienced by women inprison. However, pregnancy does seem to offer some the possibility ofmaking a new start with their baby. One young mum only found out shewas pregnant the day she arrived in prison. She told us how reassuringshe had found it being able to come to a group with other pregnantwomen every week, to focus on the baby and also talk about herworries." As well as the usual fears for survival in prison, pregnantconvicts worry, Marshall says, about whether their doors will beunlocked in time and whether, in labour, they'll get carried away withthe pain, and swear at the prison officers, and get disciplined.
Agovernment review of the children of offenders concluded that they "arean 'invisible' group: there is no shared, robust information on whothey are, little awareness of their needs and no systematic support".Reid says she hasn't decided when, or even if she'll tell her daughterthat she was born behind bars. How will her first few nights affect therest of Keira's life?
We interviewed four ex-convicts, includingDonna McLeish, who was shackled during her pregnancy, and asked themhow it felt to bring up their babies behind bars.
