Friday 11 November
Induction Wing, HM Prison Wormwood Scrubs
I’m being taken to E Wing, to a single cell. I’m baffled but thankful. My first job is to clean it. I’m given a dustpan and brush and find a scourer under the sink.
I clean as best I can, and, looking at the toilet, decide to “take the plunge”. I roll up my sleeve, use the scourer again and a lot of elbow grease. Then I wash my hands very, very carefully.
Tim HewesTim Hewes
Sitting down afterwards, it feels as if I’m in a room in a guest house of a religious community, crossed with a shabby, university hall of residence room, but with no handle on the inside of the door and no booze. I’d had a conversation with Andrea recently, about my needing to go on a retreat, not just for a week — longer if possible, but at the time, but I was at a loss as where to go.
My single cell has a kettle and a TV, so already I’m provided with most of the possible extras. It also has a toilet, wash basin, bed, a chair — a bit battered from being hammered against the door on several occasions — and a little desk. Not exactly the retreat I’d been expecting. Be careful what you wish for!
But perhaps I could approach this as a real retreat, an opportunity rather than an imposition. A chance for me to get a new inner direction, to do some meditation regularly, and perhaps some writing.
The chaplain, a soft-spoken man who has an aura of quiet strength and wisdom, visits. I find him reassuring, empowering. He quotes the Desert Fathers, a group of Christians who, more than 1500 years ago, lived in caves in the deserts of the Middle East: “Go into your cell — and the cell will teach you everything.”
It feels as if I’m in the presence of one of those Desert Fathers, being instructed by him. This is quite a challenging and intense experience. So, my task is to see my cell as a place of learning. I’m on remand, and not sure how long for. It could be six months or a year before the trial.
Friday 25 November
E Wing, HM Prison Wormwood Scrubs
First thing this morning, I look at the messages of goodwill, appreciation, and love. Today there is one from seven-year-old Maïa. Her mum has heard about Just Stop Oil, that several of us are in prison, and sent me this. I don’t know them; so it’s all the more valuable. The picture is of a beautiful rainbow of love encompassing the world and its creatures. There’s also a drawing of me in a cell! It’s brilliant.
Andrea HewesAndrea Hewes
These images nourish my meditation. They allow me to consider prison as a state of mind. I am physically restrained. There is nothing I can do but accept that. But my mind is as free as a bird, free to go wherever I choose.
I remember reading an autobiography by Íngrid Betancourt. She was a presidential candidate in Columbia in 2002. She was kidnapped by the FARC guerrillas and held in the jungle, often chained by her neck to a tree, for six years. When she was rescued, she wrote about her experiences. She said that, although everything else had been taken away from her, no one could take away her ability to decide what sort of person she chose to be, and she chose to be a forgiving one.
She puts my short time in prison into stark perspective. Betancourt is a powerful exemplar. I choose to be a person who searches for beauty, in any of its forms, allowing it, I hope, to strengthen me.
Currently, when I think of “beauty”, I do so with an intrinsic ambiguity. I demonstrate this, by the uncertainty of how I write that word. Do I write it with a capital letter B, or a small letter? Am I actually referring to God, or beauty inspired by God or things beautiful? For now, that question must remain unanswered. But there is beauty here! I’m beginning to see that. Will it be enough to strengthen and sustain me? I don’t know, but today seven-year-old Maïa has given me hope.
Here in the Scrubs, there are officers, yes, and prisoners, too, from whom emanates something of the divine beauty that all creatures possess. I can see that now. Here, my hope is being restored. Can God really be in this place? It’s beginning to seem so.
My intention is to find and reflect that Beauty. To witness to it. Not to get bogged down in the dark thoughts, the fear, the uncertainty, the trivia for daily inconveniences. I can’t reflect anything worth while if I go down that road. No. I am going to squeeze as much goodness as I can from every day I’m here, and seek the divine nature in every part of this place.
Monday 12 December
HM Prison Wandsworth
How can it be so cold outside and still be warm enough in here, when we are missing two window panes? I’ve got my towel over the end of my bunk reaching over the heating pipes; so it stops the draft and dries at the same time. I also keep my watch handy, and now I’ve got a torch I can read at night without having the cell light on. I ordered it from “the catalogue”. This is the prison equivalent of Argos, with about a dozen electrical items on, including radios and CD players.
During Association, I see officers surrounding an inmate. There’s been some violence. Three of them are slowly moving him off the wing. They are using a “control and restraint technique”: one on either side gripping him tightly, leading him sideways, down the stairs, with a third beside them.
Tuesday 13 December
HM Prison Wandsworth
It’s noisy with people shouting, swearing at guys in the neighbouring cells, and hammering on the doors. But pigeons come to the window for cornflakes. One even comes inside and on to my hand to eat. I’m hoping when I’ve built up his trust, I can hold him and cut the thread off his feet, with a razor blade I’ve adapted, as I was shown in the Scrubs. It’s a wonderful feeling, having this beautiful creature’s feet on my hand, but so sad that human activity has caused it to suffer. I feel a deep-seated bond between myself and this fellow creature, as if we are siblings, tiny shards of beauty hewn from the same gem.
I see the Chaplain today. I met him two years ago, and he’s been following my activities through Christian Climate Action. He’s not allowed in the cell here; so we talk on the landing about our mutual grief for the planet. An old guy cleaning the landing outside my cell stops and, not having heard our conversation, tells the Chaplain of his sadness for the planet. He moves on with his mop and bucket. So, lots of guys in prison get the climate and the environmental emergency. It’s a shame our Government don’t.
I ask the Chaplain to bless me amid the cacophony of men, making the most of their hour out of the cells. I ask, because I want to feel anything God has to offer me, and I cherish these rare opportunities. It is a bizarre and, at the same time, a profound and emotional moment.
There’s a beautiful hymn with a line that goes: “I will hold the Christ-light for you in the night time of your fear.” This is the first time I have actually felt that, experienced it. This is what he is doing, here and now, “in the night time of my fear”.
Thursday 15 December
HM Prison Wandsworth
I ring Andrea. It’s so good to be able to phone her every day. She tells me Bishop Gavin has written a great letter to the court in support of my bail application. This is so strengthening for me. He is immensely supportive — not unreservedly, and that gives me food for thought.
Andrea HewesAndrea Hewes
A few months ago, something happened that made me question whether it was right for me to wear my dog collar while on protest actions. I emailed Bishop Gavin and asked him. He replied: “You must wear it, otherwise, you’re being deceptive. You are a prophet, which is a difficult and lonely place to be, but it is your role as a priest, and you must wear your collar.”
Yesterday, I got a pigeon with the thread around its feet into the cell, eating from my hand, but I needed Aleksander [my cellmate] to hold it for me while I worked on it. Today I put the cornflakes out, but my bird doesn’t come back. Lots of others, but not the crippled one. There was a hard frost in the night, and I wonder if that beautiful creature I connected with, has died. The tragedy of life, the death of such beauty oppresses me.
Wednesday 21 December
Back at home
My first day out, and it feels weird. I’ve spent six weeks in prison, and now I have to find my place in a more complex social setting. I know that this is a comparatively short time, but long enough for me to need to refocus. In prison, I became aware of my sense of purpose, but now I have to start again.
But how can I live and be authentically me, when I am unlikely to be able to take non-violent direct action (NVDA) again? I cannot hide from the reality that humanity is on the brink, and yet I cannot see a way to live energetically, creatively, and with hope.
The Wandsworth Chaplain might suggest I meditate on Mary as a starting point, to put fear aside and be reassured we each have something special — unique — to offer for the healing of our world, and to remember Mary, especially at night, when the darkness falls.
Joanna Macy, in her book Active Hope, emphasises the importance of developing our inner resources and our outer community. This strengthens our ability to face disturbing information and respond with unexpected resilience. This can help us act creatively in the crisis of our time. It’s about gratitude for the profound beauty of the earth — nature, honouring our pain for the world, seeing with new eyes.
These are edited extracts from Finding Beauty Behind Bars: A climate activist’s enforced retreat by Tim Hewes, published by Darton, Longman and Todd at £12.99 (Church Times Bookshop £11.69); 978-1-917362-09-2.
The book is illustrated with paintings by Tim’s wife, Andrea, which they describe as representing “a coming together of their separate cathartic processing of his imprisonment”.
