Relationships as bricks in the prison walls : intramural and extramural relationships among male prisoners in Balikpapan, Indonesia

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Relationships as bricks

in the prison walls

Intramural and extramural relations among male prisoners in Balikpapan, Indonesia

Marije Meijer

10798706

marijemeijer1996@icloud.com

Master Cultural and Social Anthropology – Applied Anthropology Graduate School of Social Sciences

University of Amsterdam 21st_{of June 2019}

Supervisor: Laurens Bakker 2nd_reader: _{Yatun Sastramidjaja}

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The photo on the front page was taken during observations in detention centre Rutan in Block D, the block for female prisoners. See Appendix A for a map of Rutan.

Declaration: I have read and understood the University of Amsterdam plagiarism policy

[http://student.uva.nl/mcsa/az/item/plagiarism-and-fraud.html]. I declare that this assignment is entirely my own work, all sources have been properly acknowledged, and that I have not previously submitted this work, or any version of it, for assessment in any other paper.

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Abstract

The prison world is a complex world, shaped by action and interaction. This ‘hidden world’ can only truly be known by the in-crowd: prisoners and people working in the penitentiary field. Due to a lack of published research, the prison world is even less known or revealed in the

Indonesian context. Thus, with their ability to establish trust, anthropologists are the designated scientists to delve into this world. According to the literature on prisons in the West, prison cultures arise similarly in different contexts because prisons have a shared social structure – despite historical and social differences. The majority of the current knowledge on this topic, however, is based on contexts where the facilities are sufficient and where the numbers of prison staff are adequate. In Indonesia, prisons are highly overcrowded and understaffed, and there is a scarcity of basic needs such as sufficient and nutritious food, clean water and hygiene. Exploring what implications this holds for the social structure, I conducted a three-month fieldwork research in two prison institutions in Balikpapan, Indonesia. With this research, my aim was to find out how and why male prisoners in Balikpapan cultivate intramural and extramural relations.

Due to the poor living circumstances, Indonesian prison life is largely shaped by a focus on survival. However, prison life in any context is challenging due to the deprivation of basic rights and needs, and most of all, due to the removal from the familiar environment. As I argue in this thesis, prisoners nevertheless find ways to cope and deal with imprisonment. Rather than simply ‘doing their own time’, as literature based on Western contexts often suggests, prisoners in Indonesia ‘do their time together’ and form a prison society that is continuously shaped by intensive social interactions – because prisoners work, eat, sleep, and live together. Reflecting morals of respecting people in authority and the importance of family in the broader Indonesian society, a social hierarchy – and eventually a ‘prison family’ – arises. In their interactions,

prisoners import values and mentalities from outside – in line with the importation theory – while simultaneously having to adapt to a new set of norms, values and (unwritten) rules – supporting the deprivation theory. Remarkably though, there has been a shift in means to express power and status in Indonesian prisons; money seems to have become stronger than muscles and masculinity.

Keywords: Prison Culture, Hierarchy, Prison Codes, Intramural, Extramural, Relationships, Family,

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Acknowledgements

‘It is perfectly okay to write garbage – as long as you edit brilliantly’ – C. J. Cherryh.

Writing and rewriting this thesis – over and over – has not been stress-free. For that I am not easily satisfied, I worked on my writing day and night, and I often got lost in my own words. Luckily, my supervisor Laurens Bakker, my father, and my fellow students were there to provide my thesis with many suggestions for improvements. I may or may not have spammed and stalked them to do so, but without their edits, this thesis would not have become what it is today – something that I feel proud of. Therefore, I am beyond thankful.

My boyfriend, mother and sister in turn, were there to mentally support me and tell me that what I was writing, was not ‘garbage’ at all. I endlessly bothered them and my friends – among whom some of my fellow students, who became close friends – with my worries and frustrations, while they kept motivating me and cheering me up. I promise, from now on I will be nicer company again!

I would also like to express my gratitude to Yatun Sastramidjaja, who replaced Laurens as temporary supervisor during his absence. Moreover, both of them inspired as well as encouraged me throughout the entire master’s program, expressing their faith and enthusiasm in my research from the beginning.

However, none of the words in this thesis could have been written if it would not have been for the people in Balikpapan. Without (Laurens’ contacts at) the University of Balikpapan, I would not have had access to my research site, the prisons, in the first place. Moreover, I highly appreciate the hospitality of Rutan and Lapas Balikpapan – especially provided by my ‘favourite prison guards’. Never would I have expected to experience feelings of joy and having so many laughs visiting prisons, let alone in prisons more than 11.000 km away from home. In general, feeling at home in Balikpapan was thanks to my landlord and his amazing family, and above all, to my (gym) friends. I am very thankful for my friends, not only for helping me out with

translation during my research, but also for showing me around the city, going on camping trips and to karaoke bars, and for introducing me to all endless sorts of – in the meantime my

favourite snack – Krupuk. True friendships arose and memories for life were made, and for that, I am forever grateful.

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Introduction

Imprisoned in Indonesia

As one of the in total 265.079 prisoners in Indonesia1_{, Budi}2_{knows life in prison is hard to bear.}

Budi is a 35-year-old prisoner convicted for one year for a violent crime. He had only been imprisoned for three weeks in the detention centre Rutan at the time of the interview. He is staying in Kamar Mapenaling, the cell where all new prisoners are placed for the first month, in order to get used to and adapt to the prison environment. Budi has to share this cell with sixty others, although it is intended for only fourteen prisoners. However, the overcrowding in Kamar

Mapenaling is extreme. Most ‘regular’ cells in the Balikpapan prisons have an overcrowding rate of

‘only’ 200 to 300%.

This represents prison life in Indonesia well; its main characteristic is tremendous overcrowding. The number of 265.079 is 208.8% ‘too much’ in terms of facilities, as the in total 464 prisons in Indonesia together are designed for only 126.963 prisoners.1_{Furthermore, the}

number of prisoners – and therewith the overcapacity rate – is growing every day. To illustrate; on the 31st _{of October in 2018, Indonesia housed 251.202 prisoners. About six months later, the}

total number of prisoners increased by roughly 15.000 prisoners. Additionally, there are even more drastic issues regarding the numbers: the prison staff is highly underrepresented. In theory, one prison guard is responsible for sixty prisoners. In practice, however, there is on average only one guard per hundred to hundred fifty prisoners.

Prisons in Indonesia thus house many more prisoners than they are designed for. This is because ‘the state is soft as a kitten when it goes up, and fierce as a tiger when it goes down’ as one reporter writing on this issue puts it, meaning that the state convicts people to imprisonment for what are relatively minor offences in other legal regimes (Renaldi 2017). Likewise, the

sentence a person faces – especially if (s)he is from a lower socioeconomic class – is often harsher than his or her committed crime would deserve (ibid.). Most prisoners in Indonesian prisons already belong to the most marginalised parts of society – and many of them have been convicted before (Edwards 2013). Not all prisoners in Indonesia have been involved in serious criminal activities prior to their imprisonment though – and this raises a wider issue of power and injustice in Indonesia. The Indonesian government has incarcerated many individuals for reasons that would not be valid in other countries – such as political prisoners and asylum

1_{http://www.prisonstudies.org/country/indonesia, accessed at 28/05/2019. This number is based on the national}

prison administration of the Directorate General of Corrections (DGC) of the 30th_{of April this year. At the same date,}

the estimated national population of Indonesia was 268.9 million. In other words, per 100.000 citizens, there are 98 prisoners.

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seekers, but also individuals who committed petty crimes (Mann 2013). Moreover, in interviews I conducted in Jakarta with the Directorate General of Corrections (DGC), the Centre for Detention Studies (CDS), and with the director of Lapas, the state prison in Balikpapan, I was told that the

overcrowding also derives from the fact that there are no alternative punishments in Indonesian penal law. Every crime is punished with a prison sentence, no matter how petty or serious.

The director of Lapas, Ilham, further explains that besides the fact that there are no other forms of punishments than imprisonment, regulations (for example, those regarding eligibility for probation and remission) sometimes do not fit the crimes or prisoners either. He therefore advocates for an approach and a voice from the prison staff, from ‘bottom up’, rather than solely following official regulations and guidelines from ‘above’. In essence these guidelines might make sense, he says, but they cannot always be applied. Nonetheless, the director and his staff said to have no voice in this, even though they have more knowledge about prisoners and their

individual cases ‘on the ground’ due to their interactions with them on a daily basis. Likewise, my attention was drawn to the individual cases and the daily interactions between prisoners and prison officials – but also among prisoners and between them and their families – ‘on the ground’. I have always been fascinated with the ‘hidden’ world inside the prison walls, unbound to a specific geographical context. However, this already hidden world is even less known or revealed in the Indonesian context, due to a lack of published research. Therefore, I was eager to find out if results in the Indonesian context would deviate from the existing research in other contexts, because of the circumstances described above. This combined with the possibility to gain access – which my supervisor Laurens Bakker facilitated with his network in Balikpapan – made me decide to conduct my research about the complex and hidden world of prisons in Indonesia. With this research, I aim to give the people who are living and working in this concealed world – the prisoners and the prison staff – the voice that, according to director Ilham, is often not heard. I intend to shed light on the relations that prisoners develop within prison with their fellow inmates and with the prison staff, while simultaneously maintaining their relationships with their families outside the prison.

I conducted my research inside two Indonesian prison institutions in Balikpapan. Balikpapan is a seaport city and is considered the ‘business capital’ of Kalimantan. East-Kalimantan is one of the five provinces of the Indonesian part of the island Borneo. With a structural overcrowding of on average 245%, prisons in this province have the highest

overcrowding rate of the entire country.3_{Detention centre Rutan Balikpapan, in turn, houses the}

highest amount of prisoners of all prison institutions in East-Kalimantan. I observed and

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conducted interviews with prisoners and prison staff in the detention centre, Rutan, as well as in the state prison, Lapas. However, due to overcrowding in both Rutan and Lapas, the boundaries between the two institutions have blurred, and their functions now overlap. This means that some prisoners have to complete their entire sentence in Rutan, whereas others are sent immediately to Lapas. For this reason, I willrefer to both institutions as ‘prison’.4

The Indonesian correctional system

Through the interviews with the DGC, the CDS and with the director of Lapas, I learned more about the Indonesian penal system – and what was ‘wrong with it’. I was told that the

overcrowding problem has to do with the different aims of the involved institutions in all the layers of the correctional system. In each of these interviews I was explained the following: police officers aim to catch as many ‘bad guys’ as possible, attorney officers attempt to close as many cases as possible as ‘convicted guilty’, and finally, the judge and supreme court focus on how many ‘convicted guilty’ they can send to prison. Whereas the first three steps are related to catching and convicting as many ‘bad guys’ as possible, the prison institution, at the ‘final station’ has an opposite aim. Their final goal is to lead as many prisoners as possible, as soon as possible, back to the right path, back to society. However, with limited capacity, financial resources and staff – but with a constantly growing number of incoming prisoners – this is a difficult, if not impossible, task to accomplish.

The DGC is the main governmental institution that has the authority over the prison system in Indonesia. The institution is in charge of making the prison policies, applying regulations and monitoring the prison institutions. Since 2009, non-governmental institution CDS is assisting the DGC in this. Likewise, the CDS developed two ‘blueprints’ for reforming the correctional system in Indonesia. The first blueprint, developed in 2009, is already enacted upon. In this blueprint, they suggested that the four different institutions – the police office, attorney office, judge and supreme court, and the prison institution as represented by the DGC – should sit together, in order to overcome the problem of different goals. Moreover, in this first blueprint the CDS advocated for prisoners’ rights and entitlements. This included offering possible improvements and solutions for the poor circumstances that prisoners are living in.

The second blueprint, developed in 2018, concerns the stages of imprisonment.

Currently, these stages are divided based on the extent of completion of the sentence. The first stage starts from the day a new prisoner arrives until one third of his sentence, the second stage runs from one third until half of a prisoner’s sentence, the third stage covers a half until two

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thirds of the sentence, and the fourth and final stage consists of the remaining time until release. The first stage is about orientation and admission; newcomers are explained the rules and regulations during the first month, while they stay in the Kamar Mapenaling. After one month, or in practice, after the Kamar Mapenaling is ‘full’ – not in terms of capacity, which is exceeded nevertheless, but extremely full, with eighty or ninety prisoners – the prisoners are divided among the blocks. In the second phase, the treatment officially starts. The treatment is divided into two programs: personality treatment – attempting to change the prisoners’ behaviour and attitudes, as is common in most correctional systems (Rowe 2011: 587) – and independency treatment – enabling the prisoners to develop a certain skill (such as handcrafting or repairing motorcycles) in the workshop. In the third phase, these treatments should already have turned out to be effective. If prisoners have proven to have changed and learned, and if all

administrative requirements in terms of documents are in order, they are eligible for remission. In the fourth and final phase, prisoners are prepared to go back into society by going on so-called internships. They work outside the prison in assigned companies, supervised by prison guards. In this last phase, prisoners are entitled to probation – and at the same time, this is an opportunity to monitor if prisoners are truly ready to go back to society.

In the second CDS blueprint, these stages are revised and revitalised. The CDS suggests four new kinds of phases, no longer based on the completed sentence, but rather on the severity of the committed crime and the required supervision and security for that crime. This leads to respectively a super-maximum security Lapas, a maximum security Lapas, a medium security

Lapas and lastly, a minimum security Lapas. Prisoners are assessed on the probability of repeating

a crime and on the risk and influence they form to themselves and others. Followingly, they are divided into the fitting category, with the suitable amount of contact to the outside world and possibility to interact with fellow inmates. Most of the Indonesian prisons nowadays fall under medium security.5_{The transition to this new system started this year, and the founder of CDS}

expressed his hope to have fully implemented the aims of the second blueprint in 2023. However, I noticed that several aims of the first blueprint are still not realised. For instance, during our interview, the founder of CDS stated that there are no longer teenage prisoners in adult prisons, because there are separate prisons for youth offenders nowadays. In

Lapas Balikpapan, however, I observed that there is still a cell in one of the blocks that holds

teenage prisoners. The founder also stated that prisoners are entitled to half an hour to an hour visiting time of their families, while in fact, I observed and was told in both Rutan and Lapas

5_{Due to the overlapping of both institutions I mentioned earlier, this includes both Rutan and Lapas. However,}

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Balikpapan that the visiting time is limited to fifteen minutes. In theory, these circumstances and rights are improved. The focus has already shifted to the second blueprint, while in practice, the implementation of the first blueprint is not yet sufficient.

Anthropology of prisons

‘Few anthropologists are willing to venture into the “belly of the beast”’, Waldram states (2009: 4). He relates anthropologists’ reasoning for this to the perspective that prisoners are difficult participants, and to the fact that highly secured settings form an obstacle (ibid.). 6_{However, as}

Waldram among others (Rhodes 2001; Foucault 1995) states, when willing to overcome these obstacles, one can find out more about this ‘unique cultural environment that is a reflection of society as a whole. Keeping in mind that most inmates eventually return to our communities, what goes on inside the walls should be of intense interest to us all. Prisons are not just warehouses. People change in prison’ (Waldram 2009: 5). Moreover, Waldram believes that anthropologists, ‘with their skills in entering cultural communities, establishing trust and

encouraging strangers to talk’, are the designated scientists to delve into the prison world (ibid.). Even though I agree that there should be more anthropological research in prisons in general, I advocate for more diversity in contexts as well. ‘Much of the current knowledge about prison social systems comes from settings where facilities are adequately provided, staff numbers are sufficient and properly trained, and operational resources are directed at the smooth running of the prison’, Narag and Jones state (2017: 22). In fact, it may very well be the case that their research on prison governance and societies in the Philippines is one of the few that resembles mine in Indonesia. Social science research about prison societies and cultures in the Indonesian context is rather scarce – or might not even exist at all. Filling this gap in knowledge was a challenge I was willing to accept. It did, in fact, complicate the research, because I was not able to build on an existing context-specific theoretical framework.

Many studies on prisons follow Sykes’ classic work on prison culture and society (see for example; Rhodes 2001, Cunha 2014 and Jardine 2015). In his book, Sykes states that prison cultures arise more or less similarly in different contexts, due to the fact that prisons have a shared social structure – despite their culturally and historically specific contexts (1958: xiii). This structure is shaped by prison codes and social relations among prisoners and arises from efforts to solve the same issues that occur in every prison (ibid.). He refers to issues such as prisoners’ dealing with the ‘pains of imprisonment’ – being deprived from basic rights and needs and removed from family – and the (violent) conflicts that result from this suffering (ibid.: 64).

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However, I doubt whether one can still speak of a similar social structure in prisons in non-Western worlds – such as in the Philippines (Narag & Jones 2017), in African countries (Akih & Dreyer 2017), in Venezuela (Birbeck & Pérez-Santiago 2006) and other Latin-American

countries, as well as in Indonesia – where prisoners experience additional struggles not

mentioned by Sykes. Problems such as overcrowding and corruption, which I also encountered in my research, are less common in prisons in the Western context due to the availability of significant financial resources and facilities, and adequate staff numbers (ibid.).

Researchers on prison societies have noted that often a disparity occurs between the organisational aims and practices (Hunt et al. 1993: 400; Granheim et al. 2011: 518), as I also pointed out earlier in relation to the CDS’ blueprints, and to Lapas’ prison director testimonial about how regulations and guidelines from ‘above’ cannot always be applied ‘on the ground’. The actual reality of prison life is formed by ‘prison codes’ and unwritten rules, and by prisoners’ experiences. In most contexts, these codes and rules imply that one does not ‘snitch’ and helps his ‘allies’ at all times (Narag & Jones 2017: 12; Liebling & Arnold 2012: 414). Prisoners are furthermore expected to reveal all kinds of weaknesses, and to take on a ‘masculine’ role and attitude instead (Karp 2010: 67). Even though these theories about prison codes largely align with my findings, the situation is more complex in Indonesian prisons, as I will elaborate on in Chapter One. As the codes and rules show, prisoners’ experiences are largely shaped by a focus on survival (Hunt et al. 1993: 400; Granheim et al. 2011: 518). This focus is even more present in Indonesian prisons due to the overcrowding and the poor living circumstances, with a lack or scarcity of basic needs such as sufficient and nutritious food, clean water and hygiene (Sudaryono 2013).

In fact, the problems in Indonesian prisons reach even further. Whereas research on prison culture and societies in Indonesia lacks, there is some literature on drug use (and resulting HIV) in prisons in this context (Blogg et al. 2014; Culbert et al. 2015; Nugroho 2017). Research shows that consuming, dealing, and even manufacturing drugs inside Indonesian prisons is common and in fact increasing (ibid.: 159). This increase can be explained by a growth in convicted drugs criminals; according to the administrations of the DGC, the CDS, Rutan and

Lapas, criminals who committed drugs-related crimes constitute the majority of the prison

population. Nugroho states in his report Narcotics Prevention Among prisoners by National Narcotics

Agency (2017) that the increase in the number of drugs-related criminals is one of the causes for

the rapid growth of the incarcerated population (ibid.: 161). Simultaneously, he states, the constantly growing prison population enables ‘frequent interaction among suppliers, users and other prisoners by less supervision of the institutional officials’ (ibid.). This applies to every issue

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or obstacle within the Indonesian prison institutions; the lack of adequate facilities, effective regulations and sufficient resources cause overcrowding, while the overcrowding facilitates illegalities and other problems. Resulting, the ‘snowball’ effect grows and a ‘patron-client culture’ develops (Narag & Jones 2017: 23). In this culture, corrupt prison staff and prisoners align themselves in a relationship where power is abused for self-enhancement (ibid.). Likewise, prison staff often takes part in the manufacturing and dealing of drugs and accepts bribes for other favours (Nugroho 2017: 160).

However, the expected rise of gangs resulting from these circumstances – such as appearing in the Latin-American context to an extent where even prison staff is unsafe and dominated (Darke 2013) – remains absent in Indonesia. Narag and Jones found similar results in their research in the Philippines. They clarify this absence as rooted in the Filipino culture, which is characterized by ‘the inherent collectivist nature of society, respect for people in authority, and penchant for family and community’ (2017: 23). In accordance with Narag and Jones, I argue that resulting from similar Indonesian values (Demartoto et al 2014: 138), a deviant prison culture with a sense of a ‘prison family’ arises. Instead of prisoners being expected to ‘do their own time’ – according to research based on Western prisons (Sykes 1958) – I found that in Indonesian prisons, prisoners ‘do their time together’. In this thesis I will explain the reasons for this contradiction.

Prison cultures in the Western context are often understood as characterized by a search for power and dominance. Subsequently, the categories and hierarchies in Western prisons are related to Bourdieu’s symbolic violence – a form of non-physical violence which perpetuates power structures (2001: 1-2). In this perspective, weaker prisoners accept their subordinate positions ‘within the confines of cultural norms and institutional roles’ (Trammell 2011: 307). Opposing this, I believe that with a shift in means to express power and status in the Indonesian context (MacDougall 2008), weaker prisoners are not necessarily exploited by the powerful ones, but rather empower themselves by finding ways to make the best out of their lower status. They fulfil tasks in return for (symbolic or material) payment. Overall in Indonesia’s prison culture, the hierarchy reflects values from the broader society. Older men are perceived as wiser and as advisors for the younger prisoners (Schröder-Butterfill 2004: 498; Demartoto et al. 2014: 132), and this results in the expression of respect rather than domination. However, as I point out in Chapter One, the social system in Indonesian prisons is more layered and based on more than only age.

I approach dynamics of the prison culture and social system in Indonesia using two theories: the deprivation theory and the importation theory. According to the deprivation theory,

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prisoners lose their sense of identity and self-worth due to deprivation of their freedom, autonomy, (ability to earn) money, and the ability to perform their heterosexuality (Narag & Jones 2017: 6; Karp 2010: 66). In society, prisoners have the ‘lowest’ possible status (ibid.). However, in prison, they still have the possibility to ‘climb’ the hierarchy (Narag & Jones 2017: 6). ‘Inmates develop a variety of coping mechanisms to recover their sense of identity. (…) Coping mechanisms tend to be regularized and provide the articulation of norms and values that justify behavior in the prison community’, Narag and Jones state (ibid.). This justified behaviour and the prevailing norms and values are in turn reflected in the prison codes.

The importation theory posits that rather than developing coping mechanisms and prison-specific norms and values, prisoners import their own values and mentalities with them from outside to inside – aiming to oppose, or at least to challenge the prison system (ibid.). I position myself in between these two theories. The majority of the prisoners in Indonesian prisons already belong to the most marginalised parts of society – and many of the marginalised prisoners have been convicted before (Edwards 2013). Being deprived even more due to

incarceration, prisoners find ways to cope and deal with their situation. Simultaneously, prisoners

import values and mentalities from outside into prison. Therefore, life in prison is continuously

shaped and influenced by society outside the prison (Sykes 1958: 9). In fact, as breakouts and matters of corruption show, the prison walls are considerably more porous than they appear in terms of the relation between both worlds on each side of the walls (ibid.: 8). This, in turn, influences the relationships among prisoners and between prisoners and their families (ibid.).

Research question and sub questions

I took the importation and deprivation theories and my overall interest in lived experiences of prison life and culture as a starting point for my research. With my research, I hope to fill the gap in the literature on prison society and culture in the Indonesian context. I intend to answer the following research question: How and why do male prisoners in Balikpapan, Indonesia,

cultivate intramural and extramural relations?

I decided to formulate this question two-fold, because I believe that both how and why prisoners cultivate relations are equally important and complement each other. I intend to show how and why prisoners form new relations within prison – intramural relations (Cunha 2014: 218) – and provide an explanation for their behaviour within these interactions in relation to prison codes. Furthermore, I will discuss their efforts and struggles to maintain (family) relations outside prison – their extramural relations (ibid.). Moreover, I examine the ways in which the worlds on both sides of the walls influence each other and how prisoners deal with this. In

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answering this research question, I aim to provide a better understanding of prisoners’ lives in Indonesia. The three sub questions related to my research questions are the following:

1. What kinds of social relationships do prisoners develop within prison?

2. Why and how do prisoners remain in touch – and upon release reconnect – with their families, family practices and values?

3. How do the hierarchies established within prison influence prisoners’ intramural and extramural interactions?

In line with the three sub questions, I divided my findings into three chapters. In the first chapter, I discuss the several layers of the hierarchy, which are partly developed within prison, and partly imported from outside. I decided to discuss this first, because the various indicators for a prisoner’s social status in prison together provide a framework for the social relations that they cultivate. Consequently, the second chapter describes how a prisoner’s status and place on the hierarchy influences his social interactions and relations with prisoners and prison staff. Moreover, I discuss the behaviour that prisoners are expected to act out, and the unwritten rules, norms and values accompanying this, but also the sorts of punishments involved – in alignment with the hierarchy categories as discussed in Chapter One. In the third chapter, I examine prisoners’ interactions with their families outside prison, the impact of imprisonment on both parties, and prisoners’ transition back into society.

Methodology

In order to answer the research question and sub questions, I conducted thirty semi-structured interviews, with durations varying from one and a half hour to three and a half hours. I

interviewed fifteen prisoners, conducted five interviews with ex-prisoners7_{, interviewed five}

family members of prisoners, two (former) prison guards, the director of Lapas, and

representatives of a governmental – DGC – and a non-governmental organisation – CDS. Rutan houses both male and female prisoners, Lapas only male prisoners. My focus is on male

prisoners, but for comparison purposes, I interviewed two female prisoners as well, whose insights are also included in this thesis. I interviewed three female and two male family members, while all prison officials I interviewed were men. My preference for male prisoners came from my initial interest in the masculinity norm in male prisons – and how this is reflected within the

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‘prison code’. Moreover, I decided to focus on male prisoners since they form the majority: they make up 94% of the total prison population in Indonesia.8

I interviewed prisoners about their experiences in prison, from the very first day they entered prison, until the day of interviewing. The experiences I asked about included their interactions with fellow prisoners, with prison staff, and with their family members outside the prison. Moreover, I asked them about their sense of safety, about the facilities in prison and how they deal with imprisonment. The latter question was often accompanied by asking them to describe an ordinary day of their life in prison. I asked ex-prisoners the same questions, but I added questions about the impact that imprisonment has had, or still has on their lives, and about their transition back to society. For an added perspective, I interviewed family members and prison officials. I believe that the perspectives of all different actors taken together draw up an extensive picture of life in prison.

When I was still in the Netherlands, my supervisor Laurens Bakker brought me in

contact with Mohamad Nasir, a lecturer in law at the University of Balikpapan (Uniba) – who put me in touch with Wawan Sanjaya, the director of the legal aid agency of Uniba. Wawan, in turn, introduced me to Mangara Gultom, who works at the law faculty of Uniba as well as at the same law firm as Wawan. More relevant, Mangara is a former prison guard.9_{Because of this position,}

Mangara was very important in providing me access to both prisons, and subsequently, he brought me in contact with people in these institutions. Within the prisons, there are several prison officers who have been very helpful. In each prison one guard was appointed as my focal point. I requested them when I wanted to conduct an interview with a prisoner, and I could approach them with any other questions or issues.

The guards chose the prisoners for my interviews. In order to assure I would

nevertheless collect sufficiently diverse data, I set certain ‘requirements’. For instance, over time, I noticed that I was interviewing solely prisoners who had committed drugs-crimes. Moreover, I perceived that the experiences of imprisonment, the amount of interaction and the size of prisoners’ networks depends on the time they have been imprisoned. Therefore, I set

requirements for my interviewees in terms of the amount of time someone had spent in prison, what block he stayed in, or what type of crime he committed. I interviewed a few (ex-)prisoners who had been imprisoned for shorter than a year, but the majority had longer sentences – with

8_{http://www.prisonstudies.org/country/indonesia, accessed at 28/05/2019.}

9_{Mangara Gultom used to work in a prison in Nunukan, a city about 900 km away from Balikpapan. However, he}

used to go to school with many of the men who are currently working as prison staff in the prisons of Balikpapan. Furthermore, Mangara is known in the prisons of Balikpapan because he grew up around them – his mother worked as a guard in Rutan Balikpapan.

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as longest a lifetime sentence. I preferred prisoners with longer sentences, since they often had developed a broader network inside. Prisoners with short sentences repeatedly indicated to not interact much, since they would not be staying for long.

Dete Aliah from the NGO SeRVE Indonesia10_{– my commissioning organisation –}

introduced me to the people of CDS and DGC. I got in touch with family members of prisoners through visiting time, and through their imprisoned family members who I had already

interviewed. Through acquaintances, I met ex-prisoners who were willing to participate in my research. Furthermore, I used a family mapping method11_{, in order to obtain a better}

understanding of the interactions and relations among prisoners. I used this method with twelve prisoners and two ex-prisoners.12_{Since comparing one’s family with one’s household solely}

captures one part of an individual’s perception on family, and since everyone experiences everyday life differently, Levin suggests that conceptions of family should be drawn from individuals’ everyday world (1993: 84). Moreover, he states that this will enable for various perspectives to be taken into account: the family and family, definite and indefinite. Whereas the family resembles with more traditional conceptions, family is perceived from the perspective of practice (ibid.).

I developed two maps with prisoners; one for each side of the prison walls. Levin split up family mapping in three steps: (1) setting up a family list, (2) drawing a family map, and (3) conducting an oral interview (ibid.: 86). In order to set up the family lists, I asked interviewees whom they think about when they think about family, and what their relationship is to that specific person. In this way, we co-created a list of those members. We created a list for their family members and acquaintances outside the prison, the extramural family, as well as for their intramural ‘prison family’. Next, I discussed with the interviewee what (s)he considers criteria for membership and, in this way, we defined the boundaries of the ‘families’. Following, I asked the interviewee to draw a map for both the extramural family and for the prison family. This map indicates how close or distant the interviewees consider themselves to members, based on how far or close they drew the members to their ‘ego’ (ibid.: 87). During the verbal interview, the interviewee could further explain the lists and maps (ibid.: 88). It differed per person what one

10_{SeRVE Indonesia stands for Society against Radicalism and Violent Extremism. Founder Dete Aliah is mainly}

focused on deradicalizing convicted terrorists, and she aims to look more into the impact on and role of family members in this as well. Dete Aliah and her NGO are interested to find out more about the interactions among prisoners, and between prisoners and their families outside the prison. Moreover, Dete expressed her interest in learning more about the impact of incarceration on family members of prisoners. Despite the fact that Dete and her NGO usually focus on terrorist inmates, we agreed it would be valuable to explore these aspects for prisoners in general, regardless of their committed crime.

11_{See page 53 in Chapter Three and Appendix B for examples of these maps.}

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considers close or distant – visually represented on the map. Besides, closeness can be perceived as something positive as well as negative, especially in the case of the prison family – since it can either secure or endanger prisoners.

I consider this a relevant method to uncover prisoners’ conceptions of intramural and extramural relationships, and to structure them as well. Besides the fact that I derived useful information from this method, it was also a nice way to work beyond language. Furthermore, by setting up the list, drawing the map and by discussing both actions during the verbal interview, the interviewee was able to evaluate and reflect on the relationships (ibid.). Interviewees

indicated to appreciate this reflective – and often educational – moment. The family map can be considered ‘a concrete expression of the informant’s inner image of relationships with family members’ (ibid.: 89). At the same time, however, I noticed that (ex-)prisoners were sometimes hesitant to admit – to me, but also to themselves – that this inner image might have changed during their imprisonment.

I conducted my interviews with the help of in total six Indonesian (former) students for translation. The majority of the interviews were conducted with two of them, Evin and Dikna. Both women are in the beginning of their twenties, and (former) English literature students at Uniba – and they thus have a good command of the language. During the interviews, they did their best to translate my interviewees’ answers in detail, but in order to make sure I did not miss any important information, I also recorded my interviews.13_{Moreover, during the moments my}

interpreter and interviewee were talking in Indonesian, I had the possibility to both observe the interviewee’s non-verbal behaviour and everything that was happening around us – information which I often found to be very valuable. Besides (during) interviews and family mapping, I conducted nineteen observations in total, of which ten took place in Rutan and nine in Lapas. Most observations took place during my visits to the prisons, before, during and after

conducting interviews. Additionally, I observed during tours around the prisons and during family visiting.

Ethical issues

Anthropologists’ help is not requested nor necessary – such as that of physicians and priests can be – but instead anthropologists ask for help and cooperation (Van Willigen 2002: 47). In any research, an anthropologist therefore faces several ethical issues. For instance, what can one offer

13_{The Indonesian parts of the recordings were partly translated by my Indonesian friends in Balikpapan, and partly}

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and how does one ‘give back’? This is especially complex in research concerning vulnerable groups, such as prisoners in my research.

Prisoners are a vulnerable group because they are not free or autonomous, and because they lack power (Waldram 1998: 238). They are in a difficult position in regard to ethical considerations. Prisoners’ rights are removed or restricted by imprisonment. From a legal perspective, the state is responsible for caring for and safekeeping prisoners (ibid.: 239). Therefore, prisoners are often perceived as incapable of making informed and autonomous decisions – for instance about whether or not to participate in research – and are seen as at risk of exploitation (ibid.). Moreover, in the context of Indonesia, the conditions in prisons are often subjected to limited supervision, mostly due to overcrowding (Edwards 2013).

However, if conducted in an ethical way, anthropological research among prisoners can empower rather than exploit them, states anthropologist Waldram (1998: 239). Waldram conducted an applied fieldwork research on the consent and accountability of Canadian prisoners, and he argues for a re-examination of the existing conception of prisoners or other vulnerable populations as ‘incapable of meaningful, informed participation in research’ (ibid.). He also suggests empowering prisoners by giving them a voice; prisoners ‘hunger’ to tell their stories (ibid.: 242). By listening to prisoners and taking into account their concerns, research can

empower them (ibid.).

I also noticed this ‘hunger’ to be heard during my three-month fieldwork research. Prisoners, ex-prisoners and family members expressed their appreciation and gratitude for being able to tell their stories – without being judged. Some (ex-)prisoners even stated it was the first time they actually told someone ‘the whole story’. They explained that they never shared much with their fellow inmates due to the fact that they did not fully trust them, nor with their families because they did not want them to worry. Others said that no one ever really asked, before I did. Besides providing a listening ear and in this way, in Waldram’s words, ‘give back’ to prisoners, I also tried to give prisoners back a part of their autonomy, by letting them lead the interview. I made a list with interview questions beforehand, but I remained flexible for unexpected turns and directions initiated by my interviewees. Moreover, I emphasized that I did not need to know anything about the crimes they (allegedly) committed. Subsequently, I did not ask them questions about their crimes; I decided it was up to them whether or not they wanted to tell me specific details and information.

According to several authors, the applied aspect does bring more complex ethical issues and situations along (Rhodes 2001: 72; Waldram 1998: 239; Van Willigen 2002: 47). This is partly due to the fact that applied anthropologists aim for social change, besides increasing scientific

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knowledge. Moreover, applied anthropologists collaborate with an organisation or NGO ‘from outside’ the field or community – and therefore have to deal with several, perhaps contradicting interests (ibid.). Waldram elaborates on this in terms of obtaining prisoners’ informed consent and envisioning accountability to prisoners, and he discusses the importance of mediating between the assumed needs and objectives of the inmates and those of the collaborating organisation (1998: 239). My partnering organisation is SeRVE Indonesia, an NGO that focusses on deradicalization of terrorism convicts and, as such, they are highly interested in both relations between inmates within prisons and the effects of incarceration on family relations. Since Dete Aliah, her NGO SeRVE Indonesia, and I have a similar focus, there were no contradicting interests. With my research I hope to contribute not only to the academic world, but also to provide insights and suggestions to practical issues ‘on the ground’ in places where this is directly needed and can be used by NGOs such as SeRVE Indonesia. I have therefore written an

additional recommendation report for Dete Aliah and her NGO. In this report, I focus on the impact of (both intramural and extramural) family relations on prisoners’ coping with

imprisonment and release, and on disparities between the aims of all institutions involved in the correctional system. Moreover, I hope that with this research, I can raise more awareness for the issues faced by prisoners in Indonesia, while emphasising matters that add value to the

circumstances for prisoners.

Van Willigen states that it is important for (applied) anthropologists to know their responsibility and take into account possible consequences (2002: 52). In order to reduce the possibility of doing harm to my respondents, I reassured their anonymity and also mentioned this in the agreement with SeRVE Indonesia. Likewise, I did not share the audio files of the interviews. I ensured the participants of their anonymity and on the non-disclosure of the

recordings, but also on my research aims. At all times, I kept in mind the most important factors, according to Van Willigen: ‘confidentiality, voluntary consent, and risk disclosure’ (ibid.: 61).

My position as a young, Dutch, white, female student has undoubtedly been of influence. I entered a male prison – and, therewith, a male dominated environment – as a woman, which meant that I definitely could not pose myself as ‘fly on the wall.’ There is a high possibility that this research would have turned out differently if it would have been conducted by a student from the opposite sex or with a different nationality. Consequently, my presence may have highly influenced my research and its outcomes. For instance, some interviewees saw me as a foreigner in the position of ‘changing the negative image of Indonesian prisons’. They emphasized that I should tell ‘everyone back home’ that it is not all that bad, and that I should highlight the

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and my interpreter that ‘we’ as society should change our perspective about prisoners and prison – and that they themselves were the living proof that the judgements were not rightful. However, my translators also played an important role, in that I believe the informants felt nevertheless inclined to tell me (their version of) the truth. Moreover, I believe my own position in fact also advantaged me in terms of willingness and openness of my informants to participate and contribute to my research. Interviewees considered as an outsider, and therefore they felt comfortable enough to ‘expose’ their reality of life in Indonesian prisons.

Beforehand, I expected the institutional setting and the constant presence of guards to be of influence on the interaction between me and the prisoners and on their willingness – and ability – to ‘talk freely’ to me. However, I did not experience this as an obstacle, since I was allowed to interview prisoners in relatively private rooms and without the presence of a guard. In

Rutan I was assigned a small office inside a bigger office – usually available for female prisoners

to breastfeed their babies. The interviewees, my translator and I were visible for the guards in the bigger office through a window, but they could not hear us. In Lapas, I was less lucky, and had to conduct my interviews in a very noisy, not very private room in between two cells. Even though I never felt unsafe, this room was not in sight and neither guarded by prison staff. In fact, as Waldram states, I believe prisoners might have perceived this as a declaration of trust (1998: 241).

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Chapter 1: Money, money, money

1.1 My kingdom, my palace

It’s Wednesday morning, a few minutes before ten o’clock. I park my motorbike in front of Rutan and wait for my friend and translator Evin to arrive as well. She waves as she sees me, parks her motorbike next to mine, and together we walk up to the entrance of Rutan. We knock on the wooden door of the prison, and the porter opens the little window. We don’t have to introduce ourselves nor explain the reason for our visit; he already knows us, since it’s our sixth time visiting. The porter is pleased to see us and lets us in. The other guards at the entrance are also friendly, and overall there is a casual vibe. One of the guards jokes that he has missed me and the other guards, Evin and I laugh.

In this entrance area, there is an airport-like security gate on the left side of the room, and on both sides, there are desks with guards behind them. However, not yet a single time did I have to go through this gate, neither did any of the guards check my bag. The only standard procedure is that the translator accompanying me, and I have to hand in our identification documents to one of the guards, and we get a visitor pass in return.

Another guard unlocks the next gate that leads to the waiting area. In the waiting area there are four tables, two on each side of the next gate that leads to the actual prison area with the blocks and cells. On both sides there are offices as well. Evin and I take place at one of the tables on the left. The guards present in this area greet me enthusiastically and say, “Hi miss”, “How are you, miss?”, and they giggle. A Gojek driver14_{comes in to} deliver food, which he hands over to a guard.

A Chinese man dressed up neatly is sitting at our table as well. About six guards gather around him and seem to be impressed by him, I assume by the way they are surrounding him and asking him to write their names in Chinese. They can barely wait for their turn; one guard is almost jumping with excitement. When all the guards have their names written down in Chinese and go back to do their tasks, I see an opportunity to start a conversation with this Chinese man myself.

To my surprise, this Chinese man, Mr. Ming, actually seems to be a prisoner. I didn’t identify him as a prisoner before, because of the fact that he is sitting here, in the waiting area (rather than in the prison area), because of the way he is dressed; in a pantaloon and blouse and, most of all, because of the way he is treated by the guards – they are all interested in and impressed by him, and act very friendly. When we end our conversation, Mr. Ming stands up and walks towards a guard. He whispers something to the guard, before entering the prison area and walking further away, out of my sight.

Finally, guard Irah15_{enters the waiting area and walks towards us. He greets us enthusiastically. As} usual, Irah asks me whom I would like to interview today. I tell him that I just met Mr. Ming and that I would

14_{Gojek is an Indonesian taxi-service that delivers food as well.} 15_{Irah is a prison guard in Rutan, who was appointed as my focal point.}

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like to interview him. Irah reacts a bit surprised but agrees. In some of the interviews I conducted so far, the interviewees told me that there are ‘luxury’ cells in block B, and all of the signs I just observed point to the fact that Mr. Ming might be staying in one of those. Therefore, I ask Irah what block Mr. Ming stays in, and Irah confirms my assumption: block B.

Irah enters the prison area to ask Mr. Ming for the interview. As Evin and I are waiting, I hear someone say ‘Selamat pagi Mary!’16_{. I turn around and see that it’s the director of the prison, Rizky, who greets} me from the balcony. When Irah comes back with Mr. Ming, I notice their amicable interaction, Irah wrapped his arm around Mr. Ming’s shoulder and they are laughing. They seem outstandingly close. Irah takes the three of us to a little room in the left office, where we always conduct our interviews. He closes the door as he leaves – which he always does with every other interview.

A few things strike me. On our way to this room, about four guards asked Mr. Ming where he was going. They had a worried tone in their voice. A female guard in the office told Irah that we should not take too long this time. Usually the guards in the office smile, greet us kindly and don’t take any further notice, but this time they seem a bit concerned.

Mr. Ming asks us how he can help us, I explain my research briefly and tell him I would be interested to learn more about the prison culture from his perspective as a prisoner. He immediately says, ‘I’m not a prisoner!’, and states that he is just staying here temporarily. He is indeed still awaiting his sentence, but he is very confident that he will be ‘free like a bird’ in no time, as he says repeatedly. He nevertheless agrees to do an interview with me, and so we start.

When I ask Mr. Ming about the facilities, the food, and about the conditions of the cell he is staying in – including the number of prisoners he has to share it with – he tells me that he doesn’t eat the food that is served in prison but orders it from outside. I immediately recall the Gojek driver delivering food, assuming it was probably his order. He explains that he neither has to share his cell with anyone. He has his own, and it’s very comfortable. ‘My palace, my kingdom’, are his exact words as I ask him to describe it.

Suddenly, one of the guards opens the door. This is surprising, because during the previous interviews, the door always kept close. Nevertheless, we continue the interview, but a bit later another guard comes in to even join the interview – something that never happened before either. Luckily, before these interruptions I got to ask what I wanted, and Mr. Ming answered all I wanted to hear.

I try to wrap up the interview, because I feel like Mr. Ming will not reveal any more interesting

information with this guard present – or if he would, that could be a problem as well, because then the guards will know that I have knowledge about things they clearly try to cover. The guard who joined us, the other guards in the office and even director Rizky, who walks by – something he never does during interviews – really seem to be suspicious and anxious to be in control of what is and what is not being said. I finish the interview, thank Mr.

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Ming for his time, and Evin and I make our way towards the exit. When we arrived, the vibe was nice and friendly, now it feels a bit hostile and uncomfortable. As I walk out the prison, I have mixed feelings; I am thrilled with all the interesting and useful information I just derived from the interview and observation, while simultaneously I am quite worried that this fact might cause distrust and suspicion from the prison staff from now on.

This vignette illustrates an important point in my research. Before this visit, I had only heard about wealthy prisoners being on top of the hierarchy, about how differently they are treated by the prisoners and prison staff because of this, and about how this affects their experience in prison. Now, one of the wealthy prisoners himself actually confirmed this. A few weeks later, I even got to see his kingdom, his palace, with my own eyes. Whereas the majority of prisoners are stuffed in one small cell with roughly forty others – while intended for only ten to fifteen prisoners – Mr. Ming enjoys a private cell, with a proper bed and pillow, and with who knows what more, what they might have tidied up before I came to his cell.

Money as an indicator for a one’s place on the hierarchy is an exception in the vast majority of academic articles on prison hierarchies. Hence, this requires some more introduction and explanation. This chapter is therefore built up in the following way: firstly, I will discuss how status is obtained in Indonesia in general, apart from prisons. This has to do with showing respect towards older men, Bapak, and meeting certain expectations of the ideal tough and masculine man, preman. Next, I will work towards how these values are imported into the prison and align with achieving status in prison, on the level that most of my informants spoke about openly, because they perceived it as something ‘natural’. Then, I will discuss the institutionalised statuses in prison forthcoming from deprivation: Pemuka, Tamping and ‘Leader of the cell’. Followingly, I will discuss the third category of status in prison. This category is based on the committed crime, and this aligns with most of the literature on prison hierarchies in different contexts. Where this resemblance ends, I will work towards the final and most important indicator for status in Indonesian prisons: money.

1.2

Bapak

and

preman

‘As a man, I didn’t feel any dignity anymore because I was beaten up. I felt less masculine, because I could neither defend myself nor provide for my family’ – Adenata, 37 years old (sentenced for eight years and six months, convicted for rape. Currently staying in Lapas).

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Like Adenata, many (ex-)prisoners explained that their masculinity is measured against their ability to stand up for themselves, giving other prisoners the impression that they should not ‘mess with them’. Simultaneously, they expressed their struggle and discomfort with the fact that they cannot sustain their families because of their imprisonment – something they are expected to do as Indonesian men.

In the Indonesian context, family is considered incredibly important: ‘to be a member of a family is to belong in the full sense of the word, both as a valued individual and as someone who embodies the values of that family. The family is the chief metaphor for successful harmonious social relations in Indonesia at neighbourhood, city, region and ultimately at the level of the nation’ (Demartoto et al. 2014: 138). The Indonesian family structure is characterised by gender and generational hierarchies (Williams 2007; Malhotra 1991). More specifically, this structure exists in the form of a patrimony (ibid.: 555).

Characteristically, older men – Bapak – have authority over young men – Mas – in

Indonesia(Schröder-Butterfill 2004: 498; Demartoto et al. 2014: 132). Subsequently, young men seek patronage from the older ones, who are considered advisors and role models (ibid.: 138). These theories about generational hierarchies were confirmed during most of the interviews I conducted. Interviewees emphasized that one should always listen to the advice of older prisoners, and that they should always be treated with respect. Prisoner Budi had only been imprisoned for three weeks at the time of the interview, as I mentioned in the Introduction. In these first weeks he already experienced a reflection of these Indonesian values in prison.

Budi: That’s just like in the rest of Indonesia how you are supposed to treat elders.

For instance, in terms of food as well, they will go first, also if that means that you won’t have anything to eat. Sometimes it’s really hard for them to walk and they need help, so you’ll have to help them. We also learn a lot from them, how to adapt and communicate well, and they give us religious advice. Elders know better, so you need to listen to them.

Moreover, prisoners are expected to massage elderly and to do certain tasks for them, such as doing laundry, cleaning the cell, or even selling drugs.17_{Among men, hierarchies are formed,}

influenced by history, tradition, culture and politics (ibid.: 132). In fact, men in general hold a dominant position in Indonesian families. Their dominance is legitimated by their ability to maintain self-control and mastery of their emotions – and these abilities inherently give them authority over subordinate men, but also over women and children (ibid.).

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Reading literature on masculinity in Indonesia, one can connect this with conceptions of (hyper)masculinity in prison culture. For instance, Karp argues that a dominant conception of masculinity – hypermasculinity – not only opposes femininity, but also submissive and other alternative forms of masculinity (2010: 65). Hypermasculinity is hereby conceived as the highest possible status and is constructed and concretized within the prison culture. According to Karp, this construction is due to the lack of other resources to express masculinity within the prison; in the broader society prisoners have the ‘lowest’ possible status, they don’t have jobs, cannot perform their heterosexuality or distinguish themselves from others by the way they dress. Above all, they barely have autonomy and no freedom (ibid.: 66).

This aligns with the presence of a high amount of pressure on Indonesian men, coming from familial discourses (Nilan 2009: 328). Indonesian men are expected to be the steady and reliable provider of the household (ibid.). As illustrated with the quote at the beginning of this paragraph, prisoners experience difficulties in living up to this expectation due to their

imprisonment. On the other hand, there is also pressure coming from persuasive discourses that encourage fantasy-like machoism and heroism, which indicate that Indonesian men need to construct their identities around those masculine practices and be tough, strong and heroic – a

preman (ibid.). Moreover, this concept refers to ‘gangsters’ or ‘thugs’ (Bakker 2015: 80). They

represent the underworld: ‘Preman, having nothing to sell but their own muscles, have a right to be cut in on the take given the lack of economic alternatives (Ryter 1998: 49).

Subsequently, Indonesian men are constantly shifting between hegemonic, subordinate, complicit and marginalised positions (Demartoto et al. 2014: 126). Indonesian men strive to be independent, tough and competitive, in order to obtain a genuine masculine status. When this cannot be achieved with their income and material ownership, Indonesian men gain respect and status by engaging in violent or criminal behaviour (ibid.: 140). There is space for this behaviour, because to a certain degree, criminal, violent and corruptive practices are normalised in Indonesia (Bakker 2015: 81; Demartoto et al. 2014: 130). Men show violent behaviour in order to frame their power, to gain recognition, honour and respect, a high place on the hierarchy, and in order to defend their territory (ibid.: 131). Since in prison these aspects are considered important to express one’s masculinity, macho or heroism discourses are not necessarily confirming

hypermasculinity, but rather are expressing fears about failing to live up to the hypermasculine norm (ibid.).

In prison, besides the fact that violent or masculine behaviour is used in order to gain power, respect and a high place on the hierarchy, or is resulting from struggling with the (in)ability to live up to the hypermasculine norm, this behaviour is also necessary in order to

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survive in prison. Ex-prisoner Yusuf is 31 years old and was 22 at the time he was imprisoned. He was sentenced for eight years and three months, for committing murder. He spent most of his time in Lapas. He explains that especially in the first weeks of imprisonment, it is important to express your (physical) strength, toughness and masculinity towards other prisoners, in order to have a place to sleep, not to be taken advantage of, and not to get beaten up. In those first weeks, he says, you experience something like ‘judgement day’.

Yusuf: Once you’re in the prison, you decide your faith. If you want to be a slave,

then you’ll be a slave for ten years. If you want to live peacefully in the prison, then you will need to show off your masculinity. You need to give a statement to other people that you have power; ‘I can also do that, I can fight’. Or you can approach the leader, or people who have power, please them, make them happy, do

something for them, and you will become one of their men. But I did not want that, because I was going to spend eight years [in prison], which is very long, so I needed to come up with something else. I didn’t want to be the slave, so that’s why I fought with other men, back then, that’s what I did.

Yusuf further explains how he showed off his masculinity, in order to gain the power and reputation he sought. He illustrates how he got into a fight over some soap in the shower with another prisoner, and that because he won this fight, no one ‘messed’ with him anymore. Other (ex-)prisoners I interviewed confirmed that this reputation has to be recognized by others, usually through a public act of violence. These ‘others’, who are in the position of recognizing this reputation have to be the older prisoners, but also prisoners who have stayed in the prison for longer already. Several interviewees explained that

seniority is an important indicator for one’s reputation as well, since prisoners who have been staying in the prison for a long time know ‘how it works in here’; they know all the unwritten rules, norms and values. I will further elaborate on this ‘knowledge’ in Chapter Two. If one’s reputation and power are recognised by the prisoners, and the prison staff becomes aware of this, they can appoint him a special role or task: ‘Pemuka’, ‘Tamping’, or ‘Leader of the cell’.

1.3

Pemuka

,

Tamping

and the ‘Leader of the cell’

The by the prison staff appointed roles of ‘Pemuka’, ‘Tamping’ or ‘Leader of the cell’, form an institutionalised hierarchy. According to the several prison staff I interviewed, they employ – and therewith empower – prisoners as Pemuka, Tamping or ‘Leader of the cell’, because it is both a huge necessity for staff and responsibility for prisoners. Prisoners with

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these roles are needed in order to assist the underrepresented staff. They are expected to be the staff’s ‘eyes and ears’. Narag and Jones perceived a similar involvement of prisoners in the Philippines and add that a similar structure – with prisoners leading supervisory and administrative tasks – facilitates communication to all prisoners (2017: 11). Simultaneously, I learned that prisoners in these roles can learn to act responsible and feel like they still have some autonomy. These roles can help suppressing the feeling of deprivation.

Each specific role comes with a different set of tasks and leads to a different place on the hierarchy. At the bottom of this institutionalised hierarchy are the ‘regular’

prisoners, who do not have a special role or task. The ‘Leaders of the cells’ direct the ‘regular’ prisoners from their respective cells. The ‘Leaders of the cells’ are directed by the

Tampings, who are in turn directed by the Pemuka. The Pemuka is seen as the staff’s right

hand, and therefore comes directly below the staff on the hierarchy. This division on the hierarchy among prisoners is also visible in the way that they dress; the Pemuka and the

Tampings have a special t-shirt. Every cell has a ‘Leader of the cell’, who is usually chosen

because he is said to be trusted by most of the prisoners and has the ability to lead. Often, this prisoner has stayed in prison the longest of all prisoners in that particular cell. His main tasks are regulating the sleeping space and the cleaning schedule and preventing and solving conflicts. If there is a conflict he cannot solve, he will ask help of the Tamping.

There are several Tampings in every block with a different task each. There can be a cleaning Tamping, a mosque Tamping, a garden Tamping, a key Tamping (who is in charge of locking the cells and gates), and for instance a Tamping who counts the number of prisoners in the cells, before the staff does the official counting. In total, there are about sixty

Tampings appointed in Rutan, and approximately seventy in Lapas. In practice, there are

more Tampings, but in order to become an appointed Tamping, there is an agreement that has to be signed. Tampings who have not signed this agreement yet, but already perform certain tasks, are referred to as ‘interns’ by the staff, until the official documents are signed. In order to become a Tamping, there are certain criteria a prisoner should meet. The

prisoner must have completed two thirds of his sentence, have adapted well to the conditions, accomplished all offered and mandatory activities, and should be reliable and have a good attitude. Often the crime someone committed also matters. Tampings should moreover be able to handle issues well. If there is an issue they cannot solve, they will ask help or advice from the Pemuka.

There is only one Pemuka per prison. Many interviewees described the prisoner with this role as a very wise man – and therefore usually a bit older. He is a preman who is

Relationships as bricks in the prison walls : intramural and extramural relationships among male prisoners in Balikpapan, Indonesia