The power of poetry in prisions | Cristina Domenech | TEDxRíodelaPlata

(This talk was given at a local TEDx event, produced independently of the TED Conferences.)

The power of words and poetry in prisons.

Cristina Domenech is a writer and philosopher. She coordinates writing and reading workshops for children, adults and inmates of the Rodolfo Walsh Student Center of the San Martín University Center (CUSAM) of San Martín National University, Prision Unit 48, Province of Buenos Aires. She proposes the usage of language as a tool for liberation and a way to change the world.

It's said that to be a poet you have to
descend to the underworld once.

The first time I entered the prison,
I was not surprised by the noise

of the padlocks, the closing doors,
or the bars,

or anything of all the things
I had imagined.

Maybe because the prison
is in a quite open space.

You can see the sky.

Seagulls fly through the sky and
you think you are next to the sea.

That you are really close to the beach.

But in fact, the gulls go to the dump
near the prison looking for food.

I continued walking in and I suddenly saw
inmates moving across the corridors.

It was as if I stepped back
and thought that

I could have perfectly been
one of them.

If I had another story,
another context, another luck.

Because nobody, nobody,
can choose where to be born.

In 2009 I was invited to join
a project

the San Martín National University
has in the Unit 48,

to coordinate a writing workshop.

The prison service ceded some
land at the end of the prison.

Right there they constructed the
building of the University Center.

The first time I met with the prisoners,

I asked them why they were
asking for a writing workshop

and they told me they wanted
to put on paper

all that they couldn't say
and do.

There I decided that I wanted
poetry to enter the prison.

Then I told them why we don't
work with poetry,

if they knew what poetry was.

Nobody had a clue about what
poetry really was.

Besides, they explained to me
that the workshop was not only

for graduated inmates,
but also for

all the common inmates.

And then I said that to start
this workshop I needed

some tool that we all have.

And that tool was language.

So, we had language, we had the workshop.
We could have poetry.

But what I didn't consider was
the inequality also in prison.

Many of them that didn't even
have a complete primary education.

Many couldn't use cursive,
but hardly print.

They didn't write fluently either.

So, we started looking for short
poems. Short, but powerful indeed.

And started to read, and read
an author and another author

and by reading those short poems,
they all begin to realize

that what the poetic language did
was to break

a certain logic and
it created another system.

Breaking the logic of language is
also breaking the logic of the system

they are used to respond to.

So a new system appeared,
some new rules

that made them understand really fast,
but really fast,

that with the poetic language they would
absolutely say what they wanted.

It's said that to be a poet you have to
descend to the hell once.

And they have plenty of hell.
Plenty of hell.

One of them once said:
"In prison you never sleep.

You can never sleep in jail.
You can never close your eyelids".

Then, I did like this now,

a moment of silence and tell them:
That is poetry, that.

The prison universe is there,
in hand.

All this you say,
that you never sleep.

This exudes fear. All the unwritten.
All this is poetry.

So we started appropriating
that hell.

And we plunged ourselves into,
the seventh circle.

In that seventh circle of hell,
our own and so beloved circle,

they learned that walls could
be invisible, windows could

yell and that we could hide
inside the shadows.

The first year the workshop
had finished, we organized

a little closing party
as they are done

when a job is done
with so much love.

You want to celebrate
and have a party.

We called family, friends,
the university authorities.

The only thing they had to do
was reading a poem,

receiving their diploma, applause and
that was our simple party.

The only thing I want to leave you with
is the moment those men,

at times huge when they stand by me.

Or very young boys,
but with an enormous pride,

they held their paper and trembled
like kids and sweated

and read their poems with their
voice completely broken.

That moment made me think a lot
that surely most of them

were applauded for the first time
for something they had done.

In prison there are things
that can't be done.

In prison you can't dream,
in prison you can't cry.

There are words that are virtually
forbidden like the word time,

the word future, the word wish.

But we dared to dream
and to dream a lot

because we decided that they
were going to write a book.

Not only did they write a book
but they also bound it.

That was by the end of 2010.

We doubled the bet
and wrote another book.

And bound another book.

That was a short time ago,
by the end of last year.

What I see week after week
is how they are turning into

different people, how they are
being transformed.

How words empower them with
a dignity they hadn't heard of,

they couldn't even imagine.

They had no idea of such dignity
and that could come from them.

At the workshop, in that beloved hell
we have, we all give.

We open our hands and hearts and give

what we have, what we can. All of us.

All of us equally.

In that way you feel that
at least, in little proportion

you are repairing that huge
social fracture that makes that

for many of them prison is
their only destination.

I remember a verse of a
tremendous poet, a great poet,

of the Unit 48 of our
workshop, Nicolás Dorado:

"I have to get an infinite thread
to sew up this huge wound".

Poetry does that. It sews up
The wounds of exclusion.

It opens doors.
Poetry works as a mirror.

It creates a mirror, which is the poem.

They recognize themselves, they look at
themselves in the poem and write

from who they are and they are
from what they write.

In order to write, they need
to appropriate the moment

of writing which is a moment
of extraordinary freedom.

They have to get into their heads,
search for that bit of freedom

that can never be taken away
when they write

and that is also useful to
realize that freedom is possible

even inside the jail,
and that the only bars we have

in our wonderful space
is the word bars and that all of us,

in our inferno
burn with happiness

when we light
the wick of the word.

(Applause)

I told you a lot about prison,
a lot about my experience

every week and how I enjoy it
and transform myself with them.

But you don´t know how much I'd like
that you could feel, live,

experience, even
for a few seconds,

what I enjoy every week
and makes me who I am.

(Applause)

"The heart chews tears of time

blind by that light

hides the speed of existence

were the images row

it fights, it hangs on.

The heart cracks under the sad gazes

rides through storms that spread fire

lifts chests lowered by shame,

knows that it's not just reading and
going on,

it also wishes to see the infinite blue.

The heart sits down to think about things,

fights for avoiding commonplaces,

Tries to love without hurting,

Breathes the sun giving courage to itself,

surrenders, travels to the reason.

The heart fights among swamps,

goes along the edge of the underworld,

falls weakly and doesn't yield to
the easy way

while irregular steps of intoxication

wake,

wake the stillness".

I'm Martín Bustamante,

I am a prisoner
in Unit 48 of San Martín,

today is my day of temporary release.

Poetry and literature

changed my life.

Thank you very much!
(Applause)

CD: Thank you!

(Applause)