Education and debate

Lurigancho prison: Lima's "high school" for criminality

Hans Veeken, public health consultant. 

Médecins Sans Frontières, PO Box 10014, 1001 EA Amsterdam, Netherlands

hans_veeken{at}amsterdam.msf.org

"It is the largest prison in Lima." Juan, the coordinator of my visit to Lurigancho, says. "There is room for 1600 prisoners, but much more people are being kept inside."

"How many?" I ask.

"Well, the authorities do not even know. Let us assume that there are 6000 people, which at least is the number given by the prisoners themselveswho are accurately keeping count of the number. You shall see that the prison is overcrowded and the prisoners themselves are the boss."

My visit to Lurigancho prison in Lima is on behalf of Médecins Sans Frontières to see if it can help the prisoners. It sounds strange: prisoners running a prison their way. Once inside the gates I see a prisoner leave his cell, lock the door, and nonchalantly pocket the key. He is going out for lunch within the prison. In Lurigancho the prisoner is indeed the boss.

	A western style fortress

Lurigancho is located on the outskirts of Lima and comprises around 20 pavilions surrounded by a carefully guarded wall. With its watchtowers the prison looks like a fortress in a western. The prison operates on a simple informal agreement between the prison authorities and the prisoners: the prisoners are not allowed to leave the closely watched precincts, but when inside the prison walls they can do whatever they like. In this way the prison authorities do not have to bother about the prison's organisation. Inside, about 20 unarmed warders oversee the prisoners. The prisoners take care of everythinglaw and order, cleaning, food, education, but they cannot control the numbers of inmates as the authorities continue, despite the overcrowding, to admit prisoners. Currently, there are about 6000 prisoners in Lurigancho.

	Everything is for sale

The prisoners can only survive by providing for themselves, which means they need help from their families for money to buy essentials and food. A strict hierarchy operates within Lurigancho. Those prisoners without money have to work for the wealthier inmates. This ranges from washing clothes to sexual services. Most things are available in Lurigancho, and they either enter the prison overtly or are smuggled in by visiting relatives. For a small fee the warders willingly turn a blind eye, but for more money they will bring things in themselves. "Look, 100 g of cocaine can be smuggled in, which is mostly done by women who hide the cocaine in their vagina," a prisoner says. "But a whole kilo cannot be brought along that way and must have been smuggled in by the warders themselves."

(Credit: JOSÉ LUIS PÉREZ GUADELUPE) View larger version (98K): [in this window] [in a new window]   When inside Lurigancho prison, prisoners can do whatever they like

	Private space

We enter the pavilion where some 800 prisoners reside. For privacy the prisoners have mostly partitioned off parts of the halls with blankets. The inmates either take over these sleeping places when prisoners are released or they rent them from other inmates. Prisoners without money have no place of their own and sleep in the corridors or outdoors. The pavilion is overcrowded. I feel uncomfortable as I become aware that I am at the mercy of 6000 criminals. I am glad to be wearing my Médecins Sans Frontières T shirt and hope that the red logo will offer some kind of protection. The "delegado" of the pavilion shows us around. I see a public telephone hanging on a wall. "Yes," Juan says. "There are even prisoners who have a mobile phoneand look, over there is a television and a refrigerator." Everything, absolutely everything, is to be had in Lurigancho, as long as the prisoner can pay or has connections.

Some foreigners are interned. I decide to pay a visit to a compatriot. Maybe I could pass on a message to his family. The delegado asks for the support of a "llamador," prisoners (recognisable by a uniform) who, for money, locate fellow inmates. The Dutchman, who had secured a private cell, peeks through the door but is too drowsy to speak. I leave it at that.

	Credibility: piranhas to sharks

Most of the prisoners are young, and the average stay in Lurigancho is one year; some, however, have been inside for 10 to 20 years. Most have not been put on trial. "You get the picture, they will learn the art in here," Juan says. "The street is said to be the school of crime. Well, in that case Lurigancho is a high school. Beginners will get to know enough contacts and gain enough experience to take a step further in the wrong direction." For the most part the prisoners come from the poor segments of Lima. Poverty and the struggle for survival have prompted a life of crime. This usually starts with petty theft such as stealing from markets. Children about 12 years of age work in small groups and are called piranhas. Once they have learnt the basics, these children progress to robbing people in the streets and stealing cars. They may eventually become armed robbers and kidnappersa status prestigious among criminals both inside and outside prison. Criminality is such an essential element to these people that they will never really belong to the criminal class until they have been locked up in Lurigancho.¹ The law of crime, drugs, alcohol, and prostitution applies within the prison.

	Medical care

A doctor and his assistants run the outpatient clinic in the mornings. The assistants are often prisoners. Medical care is free, but in practice prisoners have to buy their way through every door they pass to reach the clinic. Inside the clinic, drugs and supplies are scarce.

HIV
HIV is a time bomb for the prison population. Unprotected sex is standard. On visiting days, prostitutes have sex with about 40 men each. Sexual relationships between men, frequently under the influence of drugs or alcohol, are also commonplace. Along with tattooing, the intravenous use of drugs, and contact with the local community the scenario for HIV transmission is obvious. Prisoners constitute a core transmitter group for HIV. Currently, nearly 40 patients positive for HIV are quarantined on their own floor. "Naturally, isolation isn't a good thing," a transvestite admits, "but here we are better off than in any other pavilion. Here we are being left in peace." Three years ago he and three other prostitutes were picked up by the police. The police checked them for HIV. He was the only one with no money. For three years he has been locked up, without a trial. Another patient has a few weeks to live at the most. "Two weeks ago," Juan explains, "he was taken to the hospital, his hands cuffed. He was beaten up during the ride. They could not help him in the hospital, because he had no money. He was transported back and again beaten up by the warders." The doctor tells me that he has asked for the man to be released; the request is still under consideration. The man will die in prison.

	Locked in cages

The rest of the morning I accompany Manuel, an orderly who treats patients with tuberculosis. Tuberculosis is diagnosed in around 30 patients a month. The patients stay in a special pavilion. Manuel is greeted with shouts. "The pills, boys, the pills ..." all of them are screaming. Imperturbably, Manuel sits himself down. "First, everyone ought to put on his shirt," he says. "There must be order," he explains to me. A patient called Alvarez is not there. "Cuchillo, Cuchillo ...," his fellow inmates are shouting, "come on, man, your pills." I realise that Cuchillo means knife in Spanish. Cuchillo turns up and, even without a knife, looks impressive with all his tattoos. He takes a cup of water and swallows the handful of pills in one gulp. The next patient first counts his pills: one is missing. He asks firmly for another brown one. Without flinching, Manuel puts an extra vitamin pill in his hand. A prisoner walks around with a drip. He asks me if it is good stuff. On the bag is written metronidazole. I explain to him that metronidazole is not suitable for him. Laughing, he says "I just for once want to clean out the mess properly," and he takes to his heels, drip and all, afraid I might take it away from him. I know he will find someone to insert the needle for the infusion. In town, saline or glucose infusions are used to "regain strength."

	Self regulation

Manuel and I set out for the pavilion where prisoners are locked up for misbehaviour, mostly fighting. The prisoners deal out punishment to fellow inmateseven capital punishment, I am told. In this pavilion nearly 20 prisoners have been locked up in a 10 m² cage with thick bars, two wooden beds, and an open toilet. They cannot possibly all lie down at the same time. There is no daylight and only limited water. The prisoners, clinging to the bars, all talk at the same time. In the dim light I can see about six cages, but I don't have the nerve to walk further along the corridor. This pavilion is inhumane, dark, and reeks, and it reminds me of a zoo. We briefly talk to an American prisoner. He has served 18 months of a 10 year sentence and talks about his stay with steely composure. Resignation is probably the only way to survive. The move to this pavilion, however, is too much for him. "I'm here for a week now. Nobody tells me how long I have to stay. We get bread and water in the morning, some soup, and that is it. I have blood in my stool, but am not allowed to see a doctor. It is inhuman. We have no rightsanimals are treated better." He earns some money by repairing televisions and radios. It turns out that Manuel is treating a patient with tuberculosis in the same pavilion; I hope that his sputum test is negative.

In the afternoon I am accompanied by a nurse who is doing a survey of the hospital. She plans to interview a sample of prisoners who have been randomly selected. She informs several delegados which prisoners have been chosen. I see a panicky look in the delegados' eyes when they realise their cook has been picked. "How are we going to eat that day?" one delegado says. "We shall appoint another one. He will also do," another delegado says blandly. The other nods in assent, glad they can solve the problem so quickly. The nurse explains the procedure again, and the delegados resign themselves to the cook taking part.

	Our boatswain

Later that day Juan tells me the story of Carlos, our boatswain, who is working on a project in the jungle. Three months ago the police picked him up during a routine check along the road. His identity card had been found in a bag during a house search two years ago. The bag had contained cocaine. According to Carlos, the identity card had been stolen, and he had papers to prove that he had reported the theft. Nevertheless he was sent to prison, where he has been locked up now for several months, without trial. His lawyer says that he could be sentenced to 10 years in prison. Suspects have little rights in the war against terrorism and drugs in Peru.

After years of lobbying, Médecins Sans Frontières has had the unique opportunity to see inside a Peruvian prison. Most people's reactions about the organisation's motives have been predictable: Médecins Sans Frontières should use its scarce resources for worthy causes such as needy children. From an ethical point of view, this does not seem right. Crime and punishment in Peru are problematic issues and it seems appropriate that Médecins Sans Frontières should help the prisoners.

	Footnotes

   Competing interests: None declared.

	References

1.	Guadalupe JLP. Faites attorantes: una etnografia del penal de Lurigancho. PhD Thesis. Lima, Peru: Facultad de Teologia Pontificia y Civil de Lima, 1994.