We get a lot of unusual mail. Yes, hard copy mail. It still comes. Surely the most unusual mail is from prisoners.
Intrinsically, prison compromises the right to privacy. What exactly the remaining legal rights to privacy prisoners might enjoy, I do not know.
I do know this: From the point of view of human dignity, prisoners have the right to expect that others will respect their personal status and relationships. I mention this to justify the omission of names of the prisoners whose letters I mention here. Their imprisonment is not common knowledge (such as Jonathan Pollard’s was).
The IJN receives letters from prisoners all the time. Some of the prisoners are regular correspondents; others write only once.
At the beginning of Jonathan Pollard’s imprisonment, the IJN received handwritten letters from him often, always in tiny handwriting covering many pages. But virtually all the prisoners who write to us are incarcerated in Colorado, be it in a city, state or federal prison.
Most of these letters have certain commonalities.
First, the writers say they are Jewish; one gets the idea, based on their names, that these are jailhouse conversions, which, of course, does not necessarily mean they are not sincere. However, many of these “Jewish” prisoners are actually “messianic”; their copious references to tefilin, Pesach, kosher food, etc., cannot mask that.
Second, the writers have certain Jewish needs that they feel the IJN can fulfill, such as a subscription to the IJN. The prisoners seek contact with the outside Jewish world. They write in response to events in the Jewish world, the same as others.
Third, and quite often, the prisoners believe their religious rights (prayer, Shabbat, etc.) have been curtailed out of spite — usually prison-guard spite, not anti-Semitic spite — and believe the IJN can help out (we can’t).
Fourth, prisoners share their feelings about G-d or Judaism. Some of these prisoners clearly explore their faith very seriously; some evince considerable Jewish learning, presumably acquired in prison. Many of these letters contain handwritten Hebrew phrases; the Hebrew is accurate.
Obviously, these men have time on their hands. But their study of religion runs deeper. They feel the need to understand why they ended up as they did. Their circumstances virtually compel intro- spection and self-evaluation. Their question is not just how they ended up in prison, but now that they are in prison, what do they do with their life? What is their purpose in life in prison?
They ask these questions and share their answers in letters.
Fifth, never once has a prisoner revealed what he is imprisoned for.
We never know whether we are hearing from thieves or murderers, although sometimes a prisoner will state openly that he deserves to be in prison.
Sixth, a prisoner will have a complaint about how he has been treated by guards, and about punishments imposed (such as solitary confinement). We have no way of knowing whether these complaints are justified.
One prisoner found solitary confinement particularly painful because he was been denied his “siddur, tallit, tefilin and yarmulke while they take time doing the investigation. It has been four days already and I’m afraid they will try to charge me with fighting, even though I never swung at him [his antagonist, another prisoner].”
Seventh, these letters tend to conclude by showering us with blessings.
On rare occasion, we will hear from a prisoner who is exquisitely literate.
Perhaps the most literate letter from prison we received was from a self-declared Jew who detailed the ups and downs in his marriage to a woman whom he said he loved deeply; and with whom, he wrote, he shared a deep commitment to faith and spirituality.
But now prison has ended his marriage, and part of his anguish was what he saw as his wife’s weakness. That is, he equated her ending of their relationship with her ending their joint commitment to spirituality. He was full of anguish.
He expressed great faith in G-d, replete with references to Jewish ideas and rituals. Yet, he also expressed his faith in some Christian terms. I couldn’t tell whether he was “messianic,” or Christian, or simply confused. In any event, his literary power at conveying his love, faith and anguish could bring one to tears.
It would be easy to dismiss this letter as the work of a master manipulator; he was, after all, writing from prison. However, he wasn’t asking for anything. Not money, not help with the prison system, not even sympathy. He was just expressing himself. “I speak, that I may find relief.” Apparently, this is as true in prison as anywhere else.
Rabbi Hillel Goldberg may be reached at [email protected]
