Detention diary, day 1: “Just another day in jail”

     Lent 2025, day 29.  I’m escorted into the by-now-familiar unit, the one with the densest population in the facility.  As I enter, I meet “Vietnam”, dressed in a trench coat and a cap, wearing a smile.  I smile back and grasp his hand, gesturing for him to join me at the table.  He sits, his Vietnamese-English dictionary in one hand, a pen and a scrap of paper in the other.  A painfully slow conversation ensues, but I’m used to it.  He scratches words onto the paper: “Me…long time…want…talk to somebody, but…can’t…”  I understand; Vietnam is alone on this side of the Pacific – no one can easily communicate with him.  I’ve been trying to teach him the Lord’s Prayer dans la langue de Shakespeare, but it’s slow going.  He teaches me how to pronounce his name; he is ecstatic when I finally get it right.  He goes on to write down the name of his wife and those of his two teenage children back home.  He must miss them terribly.

     During a lull in my conversation with Vietnam, “Afghanistan” joins us.  He pulls at a strand of his mop of curls and complains about a toothache, saying he didn’t manage to read in his Farsi Bible over the weekend, due to the discomfort.  As I chat with Afghanistan, Vietnam goes to see if “Colombia” is awake – it’s not like him not to be at his post, Bible open and sheets of loose-leaf covered in meticulously written notes doing the job of a tablecloth.  Colombia eventually emerges from the sleeping quarters, obviously having just stepped out of the shower.  As I clasp his tattooed forearm and inquire with a raised eyebrow as to his having slept in, he sits and explains.  Yesterday, he found a workout buddy who convinced him to do 3 training sessions, each punctuated with 5 portions of instant coffee.  We burst out laughing.  “I bet you didn’t sleep too well, did you?”  Colombia is eager to learn about his faith and take his life in a new direction.  This guy brings such positive energy to this place – thank God for him.  He knows everyone’s name, room number and contact info.  When Colombia tells people to gather for prayer, very few dare not to show.  His is a calm, upbeat and persuasive strength.  I’ve only known him for 5 weeks, but it feels like we’re old friends.  I guess that’s to be expected in a place like this – everything is heightened, as if their sense of friendship is working overtime to compensate for being deprived of seeing anything beyond the fences, of smelling the uncovered grass (whose progress I witness during my lunch-time walks around the perimeter), of tasting home-cooked food and of embracing their loved ones.

     As the cleaning crew arrives, we move to “the library”, a glass box with a few books, about the size of half a dozen phone booths.  We are joined by “Portugal”, sporting his habitual smirk and thrilling at the prospect of getting out this week (and not via the airport).  He tells me he can’t wait to order a Dominos pizza once he gets back to his place.  “Algeria” appears and starts talking about a documentary he just watched about the Jonestown massacre.  His appearance adds a surreal dimension to the disturbing topic of conversation.  “Gabon” squeezes his imposing frame into the library and approaches me accompanied by a friend – they have a pressing question concerning biblical interpretation: D’où est venue la femme de Caïn?  This leads to an energetic exchange about the human genome and whether belief in the Bible as the Word of God is compatible with Darwin’s theory of evolution.  During this conversation (in French), Colombia is listening intently.  Once Gabon & cie. leave to consult the text of Scripture (again), Colombia asks me “Did you mention the Mormons?” Indeed, I had (as I remarked on the demarcated gene pool of a closed community).  He goes on to tell me that some Latter-Day Saints had recently paid his brother a house-call.  Algeria interjects, “Can you get me a Koran and some prayer beads?”, he asks as he sprawls on the rough carpet.  I promise to look into it.  At this point, as a certain female guard walks by, some loud banter erupts among several of the guys.  Everyone seems to be in a good mood today.  As I head back to my office, I glance at the icon of the face of Jesus sitting on my desk.  Of course, I had been looking into that face all morning.  I whisper “Thank you” as I place the “written image” back in the drawer before asking to be escorted to the main gate.  Just another day in jail.