Uhuru Rowe

Usually, when people talk about the carceral system, they look to "experts" with degrees -- professors, criminologists, and policy analysts who often view prisons through the lens of data and text. But there is a massive difference between studying prisons and living inside one.

If you want to know what a prison is, don't ask an academic who has spent years studying and teaching about prisons inside of the comfort of a classroom or a study hall. Ask the person who watched their youth wither away behind a steel door or the person who survived the carceral state's attempt to completely erase their humanity.

I spent almost my entire life in prison and some of those years were spent solitary confinement. You cannot and will not find a peer-reviewed study that captures the psychological damage that I experienced from being trapped inside a tiny concrete cell for twenty-three hours a day. On more than one occasion, I came close to hanging myself from the sprinkler inside my cell in order to escape that hell. The "experts" talk about topics like the history of prisons and its behavior modification programs, but those of us who have lived that reality know the truth: it is state-sanctioned torture designed to break the human spirit so thoroughly that there is nothing left to resist.

I survived 31 years of systemic abuse and brutality that the general public chooses to ignore. I have seen people on the inside drop dead from medical neglect. I have seen prison guards plant drugs in cells and beat people while they were handcuffed and defenseless. I, too, was beaten while I was handcuffed. I have seen stiff, dead bodies being dragged out of cell at 3AM because of a drug overdose. I have seen young men fresh into the prison system get raped by predators who had already been prison for 30 and 40 years. I have seen childhood friends get beaten and stabbed to death over petty and minor conflicts. I have seen prison officials intentionally place rival gang members into the same cell and dorm together so that the ensuing violence can be used as a justification for locking down the prison and taking away "privileges." I have seen prison officials retaliate against people for simply speaking up and speaking out about these issues. My eyes have seen so many other horrors.

On the Left, we know that the carceral state is not broken. It is working exactly as designed and as intended. It is a tool of class warfare and social/racial control and dominance. But even within the abolitionist movement and within the Left in general, there is a tendency to speak for us rather to us. Real expertise on prisons isn't found and will never be found in a thesis, academic text or an academic lecture -- unless it is authored by a person directly impacted by the PIC. It is etched into the scars on our backs and the grief we carry for those who who may never make it out.

If we are real about dismantling this thing we call the prison industrial complex, we must stop pretending that objective observation about the PIC is superior to lived experience. The only people who understand the true nature of prisons are those who have been chewed up by it and had the audacity to survive. I say all that to say, the revolution will not be led by those who studies the fire; it will be led by those who walked through it.

All Power to the People who don't fear freedom!

      The systemic nature of sexual violence in women’s prisons is not a series of an isolated, “bad apple” type incidents but reflects the inherent nature of a carceral system built on power imbalances, isolation, and state-sanctioned control and violence. From recent reports emerging out of Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women (FCCW) in Virginia to the exposure of the culture of sexual violence against women at FCI Dublin in California, the patter should be clear to anyone who is paying attention: prisons are a playground for sadists and predators were guards and officials use their authority to exploit and commit violence against the most vulnerable and the most forgotten.

     Just recently, women at the FCCW have begun to shatter the silence surrounding an upsurge in sexual violence perpetrated by prison staff. These reports often follow a chillingly predictable pattern:

• Targeting Visibility: Guards often target women in solitary or those with limited outside support.

• Retaliation: Incarcerated women who speak out frequently face retaliation in the form of solitary, administrative transfer, loss of privileges, bogus institutional infractions, and even more physical and sexual violence.

• Institutional Silence: Despite the federal Prison Rape Elimination Act (PREA) pass in 2003 intended to combat sexual violence in prison, complaints about sexual violence in prisons like FCCW are often handled the staff that supervises or works closely with the accused, leading to a culture of stonewalling, silence and impunity.

The Legacy of FCI Dublin

     The crisis at FCCW echoes the crisis of FCI Dublin in California, which was forced to close in April 2024. Dubbed the "rape club," the facility saw its warden, chaplain, and numerous guards convicted of predatory sexual abuse. FCI Dublin had been under scrutiny for decades and a 1990s settlement promised reforms that never materialized. By late 2024 and early 2025, historic settlements were reached for survivors of FCI Dublin. However, these payouts – while providing some financial relief – cannot undo the decades of trauma or fix the systemic rot that allowed the abuse to flourish at the prison.

     The culture of sexual violence at FCI Dublin proved that even low-security facilities or progressive oversight (which came into existence via reforms) cannot prevent abuse when the fundamental structure of the prison relies on the total and complete domination of one predatory group over another group that is essentially vulnerable.

The General Reality of Women in Prison

     Sexual violence in prison is tantamount to modern-day slavery, where the state’s agents exercise absolute control over the bodies of those in their custody. Prison staff control access to basic needs – toilet paper, phone calls, food, medical care, and feminine hygiene products – and use these as leverage for sexual favors.

     The paradox is that women at FCCW, FCI Dublin and beyond are frequently incarcerated for survival crimes or for defending themselves against domestic violence, only to be placed in a prison environment where the state becomes the new abuser.

The Only Solution: Abolition and Closure

      The transition from Fluvanna to Dublin and back again demonstrates that reforming prisons is a futile cycle. Adding cameras and body-worn cameras, increasing PREA audits, or firing individual guards and wardens merely prunes the branches of an inherently toxic and corrupt  tree. Abolition is the only logical response because violence is fundamental to the Prison Industrial Slave Complex (PISC) and a safe version of an institution that is based on cages and coerced compliance is unrealistic.

     The closure of FCI Dublin showed that the system would rather shut a prison down than fix its inherent violence. This logic must be extended to all other carceral institutions like FCCW. True safety for women will not be found behind bars, but in the total dismantling of the PISC and the creation of a world that prioritizes care over cells and cages.

The prison gates didn’t swing open for me like they do in movies;

the mechanized lock just clicked, a metallic sound I’d heard for nearly 31 years.

Only this time, the guards standing on the other side didn’t tell me where to stand and didn’t tell me to turn around so they could place shackles around my wrist and ankles.

I walked out with a plastic bag of some of what was my life on the inside;

old letters, old photos, and my freedom papers.

Everything seems loud now. The first grocery store I went to was a sensory riot – too many colors, too many choices of bread and cereal, and too many people who looked at me as if I was a ghost that hadn’t realized I was dead.

Sometimes the silence of my room is louder than all the noise in prison; so loud that I sometimes crave the sounds of the screams and shouts of the people who had lost their grip on sanity while locked down in solitary. I am not normal.

I am tired. The repeated barriers to housing and employment, the frowns and blank stares I receive when I explain the lack of a credit score is due to long-term incarceration. Sometimes prison feels like home.

Sometimes I look in the mirror at a face that is much older than before I went on the inside, mapped with lines of time that I can’t get back.

I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to buckle under the relentless pressure of the carceral state.  I am just learning how to accept myself in a world that doesn’t accept me.

One step at a time. One breath at a time. I am still here.