Half of the world’s population is currently on some form of lockdown to enforce social distancing in a bid to contain the spread of a virus that thrives in crowds. Schools, government offices, bars, and clubs – almost any space that confines a large group of people within four walls has been shut. Nowhere is that sense of confinement more real than in overcrowded prisons all over the world.
With governments taken aback by the speed and extent of COVID-19’s spread and most unready to contend with full-blown outbreaks among prison populations, some have opted to grant temporary release, or furloughs, to hundreds of thousands of prisoners and pre-trial detainees.
But despite the motifs of freedom that have been painted by the inmates at the Kasnazan prison, they will not be benefiting from such a clemency, the prison’s warden Hemin Nankali tells us as we sit in his spacious office.
The Kurdistan Region’s neighbours Turkey and Iran — both notorious for their treatment of prisoners — have both ordered furloughs for some of their inmates. Iran, which was impacted early and hard by the spread of the virus, has released upwards of 100,000 prisoners, according to the country’s justice ministry. Tens of thousands in Turkey are set to be released from prisons after a bill passed parliament on Monday – though there has been contention over who can and cannot be released, as prisoners whose charges are political are not eligible for release, while some who have committed violent crimes, on the other hand, are.
The Kurdistan Regional Government (KRG), which the World Health Organisation (WHO) praised for its swift implementation of lockdown measures, has also released some prisoners. When neighbouring Iran began to lose control of the outbreak in February, measures to stop the virus in its prison-bound tracks were implemented before the Kurdistan Region had even recorded its first case. Of the 6,277 people currently held in detention in the Kurdistan Region, 1,655 are awaiting trial, and 1,500 have been furloughed, according to Ibrahim Ismail, head of the Region’s judiciary council overseeing the process. The inmates at Kasnazan, however, have already been found guilty, and are thus not eligible for release.
Incoming inmates at Kasnazan were subject to a 14-day quarantine in rooms inside the facility to make sure they weren’t infected with the coronavirus. Family visits were prohibited as early as the third week of February. Posters with health and hygiene advice are plastered on prison walls, we’re told. The measures seem to be working -“I don’t believe that there are any cases here [at the prison],” Nankali says, though he says he can’t be a hundred percent certain.
After some convincing, Nankali permitted Rudaw English to speak to two of the prison inmates who worked at its facilities.
Sangar (not his real name) is serving a four and a half year sentence for trading in stolen cars. He suffers from diabetes, and worries he is at a higher risk of contracting coronavirus. But he’s confident staff are working effectively to prevent the outbreak making its way into the prison. As someone serving food to other inmates, he says he’s given a mask and gloves twice a day by the prison’s administration and is told to stay a meter apart from other inmates.
Aland (also not his real name) is serving a sentence for theft. He works for the prison administration, welcoming families making visits that have been brought to an indefinite end. He tells us that prison is “really clean,” and that the staff tells prisoners to keep their distance from each other.
Both inmates are wary that the prison’s overcrowding makes social distancing difficult. Nankali concedes with ease that the prison’s maximum capacity is officially 920, but it currently houses 2,000. Its population fluctuates, and the number of prisoners has in the past gone as high as 2,500.
“There are 15, 20 prisoners in each hall”, Alan says. Sangar confidently estimates each hall to be five by six meters — making it impossible for them to maintain the recommended distance.
“Of course we are scared - if one person gets sick, we all get sick,” Aland says, noting that even slightly lowering the numbers in his ward would make a difference. “Although the prison’s measures have been effective, being outside the prison would be better,” he told Rudaw English.
Sangar is a father of five, who says he is normally granted a week of leave every three months to see his family. Those visits have had to be stopped, view of the way prison staff have handled preventative measures.
“I’m not in need of anything else,” Sangar said, “but to be with my children.”
Nankali directs in grand vision. He prides himself on the number of holistic activities available to the prisoners in times of less crisis - yoga, IT, language learning - and one of Nankali’s colleagues tells us that one former prisoner’s English has improved so greatly that he got a job working at Erbil International Airport.
Though plans to introduce new services like an in-house barber have been put on hold, inmates now work in other fields. As cars roll into the prison’s perimeter, they are disinfected by prisoners paid 3,000 Iraqi dinars (around $2.50) by the state per car, Nankali says.
Prison labour is common around the world; Kasnazan is no different, producing everything from military graduation uniforms to the delicate embellishment on the waistcoats of women’s traditional dress. Nankali tells us “we'd be able to produce hundreds of face masks ourselves if we only had the right material.”
Before we leave his office to speak to Aland and Sangar, Nankali recounts the love he developed for cycling while living in asylum in Sweden; he loves the fresh air, he says. The decision to grant prisoners furlough belongs to higher powers than him; all he can do is adjust conditions as best as possible to minimise the likelihood of an outbreak at the prison.
Additional reporting by Fazel Hawramy
Editing by Shawn Carrié
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