Can the Victim and the Criminal Ever Reconcile?

By Tijn Touber and Helene de Puy, Ode. Posted December 25, 2007.

When she comes in, the room is full of prisoners -- many of them doing time for murder, many already having served 25 years or more. She's very nervous and sits down without shaking anybody's hand. More than 10 years ago, her 12-year-old son was abducted, raped and stabbed to death. "I want to know," she says, "did he ask for me? Did he cry for me? I need to know what happened, so I can stop imagining."

But today, Maria -- a five-foot-tall woman in her fifties who works as a cashier in a supermarket -- will not be facing the offender. She's meeting a group of men dedicated to helping heal victims at California's San Quentin State Prison. That's what Maria is looking for: healing. Because she cannot live with the fact that she doesn't know anything about her son's last moments. "Perhaps I can ask them what I would have asked my offender," Maria reasons.

And so Maria, supported by another mother whose son was murdered, starts talking about her loss. She sheds her tears, collects herself and then asks the men, gathered in a circle of chairs, some tough questions: What went through your mind when you killed your victim? What do you remember about your victim at the time of the crime? Was it worth it? One by one, the men answer her. They don't get upset and don't turn away. They keep their eyes on Maria and tell her the truth, and nothing but the truth, without justifying themselves or evading her questions. This truth-telling slowly fills the room with an awe-inspiring power. Perhaps never before has the accounting of these horrendous acts been such a gift of healing to someone hearing it. "Thank you," Maria whispers, again and again.

Slowly, the room lightens up. One of the men asks Maria to share some fond memories of her son, and she responds eagerly. She also shares that while she is glad her offender has been prevented from causing further harm, she bears no ill will toward him. She knows a thing or two about the challenge unresolved pain poses. "I'm tired of coping," she says. "I want to live again."

Jacques Verduin, who facilitates this group process at San Quentin prison, has thoroughly trained these men to handle this kind of meeting. Ten years ago, he started the Insight Prison Project (IPP). Through it, some of these tough customers have acquired gifts they can share with other prisoners as well as everyone else: counselling; conflict resolution and mediation; victim/offender education; violence prevention; yoga and meditation instruction; parole planning and addiction recovery. As many as 300 inmates a week attend the programs.

Although Verduin hardly stops stressing the team effort inherent in his organization, you could say he has planted seeds of peace and reconciliation among people for whom that might seem impossible.

But in his case, the seeds were probably tulip bulbs, for Verduin is as Dutch as they come: blonde hair, blushing apple-red cheeks and bright blue eyes with the steadfast determination of Hans Brinker, the archetypical Dutch boy who stuck his thumb in a dike to save the country from flooding. And the 47-year-old Verduin, who calls himself a "recovered psychotherapist," has needed every inch of Hans Brinker's courage to deal with California's troubled prison system.

The inspiration to start self-rehabilitation programs in prison came when Verduin realized modern society was destroying its members' sense of community and connectedness. According to Verduin, the spirit of kindness, compassion and caring was gone. He resolved to build an organization that would hold up a lamp in one of the darkest places in our culture, a place where human beings are discarded, labelled as prisoners and forgotten. Where better to start than inside the walls of San Quentin?

Opened in July of 1852, the oldest of California's prisons is home to some of the most dangerous men alive. That's where the state's death row for men is located, as is its only gas chamber, now used to perform lethal injections. The cells in which the men live take up only 35 square feet (a little more than 3 square metres), and are double-occupied.

"It's a tough place," acknowledges Verduin as we wait for our IDs to be scanned at the prison gate. "When I started, it was just about as difficult to get into San Quentin as it was to get out. The first time I sat with a group of prisoners was quite intimidating. I was so green. One of the first things they said was, 'Hey man, what are you driving an ambulance for?' It took me a little while to figure out that this was slang for, 'Why are you trying to save us?' Then they wanted to know how much drugs I had used and of course, I could not impress them."

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