RIGHTS-ARGENTINA:
Raising Children Behind
Bars
By Marcela Valente
LA PLATA, Argentina
(IPS) - Soledad Acevedo
was an 18-year-old
mother of two eking out
a living by means of
menial casual work in
2002 when she was sent
to prison in the
Argentina province of
Buenos Aires, accused of
armed robbery and
attempted homicide. Now
she is 24, and is
excited as she meets
with IPS in her cell.
She is happy because she
has just been told that
she is about to be
placed under house
arrest. It’s not exactly
freedom, but until her
appeal goes through, she
will live at her
sister’s house, with her
nine-year-old daughter
and seven-year-old son,
who she was separated
from when she was
arrested, and with the
daughter who has lived
with her in prison since
her birth in 2006.
Acevedo is one of the
270 women in Unit 33 of
the medium-security Los
Hornos prison in La
Plata, the capital of
the eastern province of
Buenos Aires, where
women make up three
percent of the total
prison population.
But she forms part of an
even smaller group: 76
mothers who have their
small children, up to
the age of four, living
with them in their
cells.
There are also around 20
pregnant women
prisoners, according to
the Committee Against
Torture of the
Provincial Commission
for Memory, a state
institution that
monitors conditions for
prisoners in Argentina’s
most populous province.
The Committee is working
with non-governmental
human rights groups to
get alternative
sentencing for expectant
mothers and women with
small children. And
little by little, they
are meeting with
success.
But without a law to
back up their demand,
they say, judges are
reluctant to hand down
alternative sentences.
"In the last few months,
there were 21 court
hearings, and house
arrest was obtained for
13 young women," says
Laurana Malacalza, the
Committee representative
who is accompanying this
journalist on a tour of
the cells of section 10
of the Los Hornos
prison, where mothers
with small children are
housed.
Unlike most of the male
prisoners, the female
inmates receive few
visitors. And in many
cases, because of the
distance between their
homes and the closest
available women’s
prison, they actually
end up losing their ties
with their families and
their partners.
It was heartbreaking to
leave the children with
her sister, says
Acevedo, recalling the
moment of her arrest. "I
didn't want to bring
them here to live. My
little girl was starting
preschool and my little
boy was just starting to
walk."
Her third child does
live with her in Los
Hornos. Now, when the
two older children
visit, they suffer
because only the
youngest stays behind
with their mother when
they leave, she says.
"The pregnancy here was
horrible, they said it
was high risk. I don't
know why. They gave me
something so I wouldn't
lose the baby," she
says.
Her daughter was born by
c-section in a nearby
hospital, and five days
later both of them were
back in Acevedo’s cell.
"My world collapsed. I
cried more than she
did," she says,
remembering the
post-partum period.
Acevedo was handed a 12
and a half year
sentence, but her
lawyers have filed an
appeal. In the meantime,
she will live in her
sister’s home with her
three children -- all of
them together again,
although she won’t be
able to leave the house
or work.
HEADING HOME
The interview with IPS
is suddenly interrupted
by shouting. Acevedo has
been called out of her
cell. She can go home.
She leaves the cell with
just the clothes on her
back. She runs down the
corridor, laughing and
crying at the same time,
giving kisses and hugs
to inmates who come to
say good-bye, getting
her special hair-do all
messed up in the
process. In a kind of
farewell ritual, her
block-mates slam the
heavy iron doors of
their cells over and
over again, to make sure
the entire prison knows
that one in their midst
is getting out.
The children watch with
surprised looks on their
faces, but they are not
frightened. They look
like they are used to
the noise. The sound of
banging and kicking
against cell doors
continues after Acevedo
is gone. With each blow,
the women are letting
off steam, expressing
joy, anger, frustration
and sadness, says one of
the older inmates.
Each prisoner put under
house arrest slightly
eases the overcrowding
in the prisons. But the
real achievement, say
activists, would be a
blanket law making all
mothers with small
children eligible for
that benefit, as are the
terminally ill and
people over 70 today. It
would also be one way to
address the severe
overcrowding problem
while targeting a
vulnerable group.
A draft law to that
effect has made it
through one house of
Congress, and similar
legislation has been
introduced in the
provincial legislature.
Paula Litvachky of the
Centre for Legal and
Social Studies (CELS), a
human rights group that
is also pressing for a
new law, said that
instead of protecting
the mother-child bond by
keeping children behind
bars with their mothers,
the state should allow
the mothers to live
outside of prison.
"The mother, or the
father when the mother
isn't around, could be
held under house arrest
by means of an
electronic bracelet, and
the children could lead
normal lives, at least
while they’re young,"
she told IPS. "That is
much better than
building prisons
equipped with child care
centres."
Meanwhile, human rights
groups back up defence
lawyers every time they
request house arrest for
their female clients. A
full 96 percent of the
mothers in the Los
Hornos prison are still
awaiting final
sentencing, and a
majority were arrested
for crimes against
property (40 percent) or
possession or sale of
drugs (31 percent).
The prison wing toured
by IPS has two floors of
cells. Each cell holds
two beds. Most of the
mothers share their beds
with their small
children. The rest of
the furnishings depend
on what help the inmates
receive. Some have a
table, a TV set or
radio-cassette player,
and shelves to hold the
children’s toys and
clothes. The cells are
small and filled to
bursting.
The state does not
provide a special budget
for the support,
education and health
care of children living
in jail with their
mothers. The services
provided depend on the
decision made by each
prison director, on the
funds available to them,
and on donations. That
means many of the
mothers depend on what
they get from their
families -- those who
actually receive
visitors, that is.
The mothers do receive
diapers and milk for
their children. But
often there is no
medicine available, and
the paediatrician is
only available for short
periods. Until a few
months ago there were no
otoscopes, nebulisers or
scales in the unit, but
they were supplied after
a six-month-old baby
died of bronchitis in
2007.
The mothers receive
eight pesos (just over
two dollars) a month in
spending money.
According to a survey
that they themselves
carried out in late
2006, during a protest
over conditions in the
prison, half of them
said they had stopped
receiving the 30
dollar-a-month subsidy
for unemployed heads of
household to which they
were entitled.
The common area that the
cells open out on is
furnished with a table
and chairs, a stove and
a refrigerator. The TV
set is on, with the
volume turned down. The
air smells of stale
cigarette smoke and
garbage that hasn’t been
removed for hours. Flies
buzz around the remains
of a meal in a pan and
the top of the dish that
holds the cake made "for
visitors."
The common area has a
door that leads out to a
fenced-in yard with a
grassy area, an empty
plastic kiddie pool and
donated toys, some of
which are broken. The
yard is crisscrossed by
clotheslines full of
laundry flapping in the
wind.
Some of the children
attend a nearby day care
centre, initially
created for the children
of the prison guards,
whenever a spot opens
up. The older ones go to
a local preschool. They
are taken back and forth
every day, but their
mothers never meet the
teachers.
WHEN SEPARATION LOOMS
Under Argentine law,
children can stay in
prison with their
mothers until they turn
four. After that, they
have to go and live with
relatives or in state
homes for children.
The Committee Against
Torture complains that
the latter option is "favoured
in practice by many
judicial system
employees."
According to the survey
conducted by the female
inmates during the 2006
protest, 27 women said
they had given their
children up for adoption
or allowed them to be
placed in foster homes.
"What we are trying to
preserve is the
mother-child bond,
because if we emphasise
protection of these
children, the judges
could take them away
from their mothers,"
says Malacalza.
One of the young women
in the unit tells IPS
that she has four
children who are living
with her parents, and a
fifth child, a
two-year-old daughter
who is HIV-positive,
living in jail with her.
The little girl was born
in a police station,
says the mother while
she waits for her to
come back from day care.
"When she was born, they
took her away from me,"
she says. "She was in
Casa Cuna (a children’s
hospital). I asked and
asked for her, but no
one listened to me. When
she was 11 months old,
they brought her, and
she got used to it here
right away."
"I love kids," she says
with a smile. She only
has one tooth left.
She doesn’t want to talk
about the reason she is
in prison.
Another young woman in
the unit approaches the
Committee Against
Torture representative
because she would like
to be transferred to
house arrest, but admits
that she has nowhere to
live. She is carrying
her two-year-old son,
who was born in prison
and has been
hospitalised 11 times
because of respiratory
problems.
The only period during
which her son was well
was when a judge had her
transferred to a
battered women’s shelter
in La Plata because of
the little boy’s health
problems, she says.
The boy’s health
improved greatly there,
but she suffered from a
great deal of anxiety
and ended up slitting
her wrists. After her
unsuccessful suicide
attempt, she was sent
back to prison.
Now, with the southern
hemisphere winter
approaching, she is
afraid that her son will
get sick again, and she
wants to try living
outside of prison again.
But it won’t be easy to
find a place for her,
Malacalza says after
hearing her out,
especially since the
young woman has lost
touch with her family.
The 21-year-old inmate
says she was studying
medicine in La Plata.
But one night, she and a
group of other students
did drugs and "went out
to steal," as if they
were setting out on an
adventure. She says she
can’t ask to be placed
under house arrest in
her parents’ home
because she no longer
has any contact with
them. She has not seen
them since her arrest
and does not want to
call them.
Another inmate, Gladys,
says she is happy
because she will be
released in just two
weeks. As she meets with
IPS in her cell, she
talks in a low voice
while giving the bottle
to her two-year-old son.
She is 38 and has been
behind bars for 13
years, in five different
prisons in Buenos Aires
province.
Gladys has five
children. She hasn’t
seen her three older
daughters for seven
years, although they
call her once in a
while. They live with
their grandmother in
General Villegas, a town
500 km northwest of La
Plata.
She had them all before
she was arrested, she
says.
"It’s better for them
not to come, because
visitors are submitted
to unpleasant searches,
and I don't want them to
go through that," says
Gladys, who does not
give her last name.
In 2001, when she was in
prison in Azul, a town
in the southwestern part
of Buenos Aires
province, Gladys got
pregnant while involved
in a relationship with a
male inmate. The
seven-year-old boy now
lives with his paternal
grandparents in Bahía
Blanca, 640 km from La
Plata, and she sees him
twice a year. Her
youngest, the little boy
in her arms, is the only
one with her in prison.
In such cases, house
arrest would allow all
of the siblings to be
reunited with their
mother.
She is in prison for
homicide. "I killed my
husband (the girls’
stepfather) because he
beat my daughters, and
no one touches my kids,"
she says. "I wanted to
separate, but he
refused. So I put poison
in his food."
She was sentenced to 20
years in prison, but the
final sentence was only
handed down two months
ago, after she had
already spent 13 years
in prison. And since
time served in remand
counts double, she has
spent more years in
prison than she owes. In
two weeks she will be
set free.
"I went through a lot
here," she says, her
eyes brimming with
tears. Although she has
learned some skills, she
has also witnessed
horrible scenes, like
women being raped by
other female inmates,
and brutal fights.
"Here, if someone comes
and says ‘give me your
tennis shoes’ or ‘your
radio cassette player’,
you have to defend your
things. And to do that,
you have to fight with
your hands or pick up a
‘fierro’," says Gladys.
"That means fighting
with a knife or anything
else that’s sharp."
But never in front of
the kids, she hastens to
add. "The fights are
arranged in the
showers."
At the end of the tour,
another inmate, holding
an eight-month-old baby,
asks this journalist to
take a photo of her with
her son, and they both
smile for the camera.
The girl has cancer but
has refused treatment.
She says it would be
senseless. When her son
turns four, they will
have to be separated --
and she does not want to
live any longer than
that. |
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