Clara Monnoyeur. I remember the very first topic relating to prison that I suggested to editorial staff: an article on visits being suspended during the Covid-19 pandemic. Because of the health restrictions, families could no longer visit their incarcerated loved ones. The topic was deemed appropriate, but it was ultimately scrapped, out of concern that it wouldn’t “speak to people”. To me, this dismissal demonstrated a misconception that is still very deeply rooted, in particular in media spheres: that prison only affects a fringe minority of the population. But in France, there are over 80,000 incarcerated individuals. Then in addition, there are those who have been released from prison, families and loved ones. Incarceration impacts a much greater number of people than one might think. Every time I mention my investigations into prison, people confide in me about an acquaintance who was incarcerated, a coworker whose cousin is in prison, or a friend whose father is in prison, that no one knows about.

 This silence isn’t trivial; it reflects an enormous taboo. That’s exactly why it needs to be talked about.

Violette Lazard. At Le Nouvel Observateur, the issue of prison is part of our editorial line. We regularly publish articles on prison conditions, reintegration, and judicial and correctional facilities. But what we have observed, and the figures confirm it, is that these topics spark less interest as soon as they address daily life in prison. It is an observation that baffles me and makes me wonder. Even our heaviest investigations – those that devastate us on a personal level – sometimes go unnoticed. I’m thinking specifically of an article I published recently on the Aix-Luynes penitentiary centre, which is overpopulated at 160% capacity. A young man was killed in the exercise yard, and his body stayed on the ground for twelve minutes before a guard took action. Even the prosecutor calls the facility “out of control”. I was convinced that this piece would elicit reactions, but there were very few. This social, political and media invisibility is what pushes me to keep investigating prison.

Clara Monnoyeur. When I began writing about prison for StreetPress, my articles weren’t read or shared much. But through my insistence on this topic, by documenting it and digging into it, the public eventually followed. Today, these subjects have found their place: they are read by legal professionals, circulate among incarcerated individuals, and are recognised as an integral part of the media outlet’s editorial identity. This effectively demonstrates that interest can develop over time if you adhere to a clear line and avoid being guided by ratings. That’s one of the strengths of StreetPress: being able to support subjects that matter, even if they do not generate spikes in traffic.

 What remains is a crucial question: how can we build a narrative around prison that has appeal beyond the circle of people who are already interested?

Violette Lazard. For me, the barometer is simple: I put my confidence in what shocks me. It doesn’t matter if my articles aren’t the most read; I keep documenting what’s happening behind the walls. The Aix-Luynes penitentiary centre, for example, is now undergoing general inspection. I am convinced that the report will be scathing, and I consider it my role to make it visible, in the hope that it will ultimately have an effect.

 At Le Nouvel Obs, we share the conviction that we have to continue documenting and investigating, even when the facts, as serious as they might be, no longer stir up emotions: murders in cells at night, deadly confrontations in the exercise yards between very young men treated as cannon fodder. The quiet refrain in the background remains the same: “They are delinquents: they should end up like that.” Our job is to not accept that.

Violette Lazard. We, as journalists, are confronted with the deafening noise of ultra-hyped controversies that pervade the public space. These “red flags” are waved for political, populist and ideological purposes. With each sequence, we spend ages debunking falsehoods, often repeated by the Minister of Justice himself, which systematically guide the debate into an impasse.

 We would like to be able to discuss other matters – alternatives to incarceration, initiatives in detention, systemic issues – but this noisy political-media narrative, combined with the reduced means of our editorial teams, sometimes forces us to spend less time than we’d like on investigations.

Even within socially conscious editorial teams like ours, we have no choice but to react to political announcements, and cover, for example, the opening of high-security prisons. Of course, these facilities exist and raise issues, but they only affect a small percentage of incarcerated people. We are stuck in this system, and it is difficult to fully extricate ourselves from it.

Clara Monnoyeur. In the current context, it is becoming increasingly complicated to talk about prison. It’s hard to know if it’s public opinion that doesn’t want to hear about it, or if it’s the political discourse that says that the public doesn’t want it. In reality, we no longer know which is the cause and which is the result. The politicians deliberately invoke this abstract, impersonal entity that is “public opinion”, to which they ascribe an exclusive desire for law and order. One day, a prison governor said to me, “With the media, it’s always the same story: either we look like persecutors or we’re accused of running a Club Med.”

 While stuck in this dichotomy, neither politicians nor the prison service dare to publicly defend improvements in prison conditions, for fear of the so-called public opinion. Prison remains, in my opinion, a topic trapped inside cartoonish narratives.

Violette Lazard. When we work on prisons, there are obstacles everywhere. The first is obvious: we are talking about a place that can only be accessed on an exceptional basis and that is always monitored. Gérald Darmanin, Minister of Justice, recently organised visits to high-security units in Vendin-le-Vieil and Condé-sur-Sarthe. These are the rare moments where we journalists are invited in. But these visits are showcases where they choose who speaks and what is shown. The news value is extremely limited in these conditions.

Clara Monnoyeur. Prison visits are highly regulated and tightly controlled. A simple filming request can require three or four months of negotiations. All the rushes that are filmed – even those that are not aired – must be approved by the Ministry of Justice. In practice, all the documentaries filmed in detention are filtered at every step by the prison service. The communication departments of the Ministry and the facility are most often the ones that decide the filming locations and the incarcerated people and guards authorised to participate.

Since 2014, parliamentarians can bring along journalists when visiting the facilities. Even then, the conditions are strictly regulated by a decree: no more than five journalists, no covering any subjects other than the subject of the parliamentarian’s visit and no direct contact with incarcerated individuals, staff or management. Once on site, the journalists are accompanied at all times, and there are numerous restrictions.

 For example, it is forbidden to film anything that could be considered related to “security”. This can extend as far as not being allowed to film an empty cell or bars as part of a piece about heat waves and intense heat. It is not uncommon for teams to spend two hours in detention without being able to obtain a single usable image.

Journalists are confined to the role of mere “spectators” of the visit, which can sometimes lead to absurd situations. I remember a 9-square-metre cell, occupied by three people. A parliamentarian invited me to ask a question. I found myself having to whisper to him, “Could you ask that man – who is just in front of me – if everything is alright?” Then the elected representative asked the question on my behalf. These situations preclude any direct connection and represent a lack of respect towards the people we are addressing.

Violette Lazard. The other major obstacle is institutional communication. To obtain information, we have to go through the central unit of the Ministry of Justice. The communication channels with decentralised sources (interregional directorates, facility management) are completely blocked off. Officially, the Ministry of Justice “registers” our requests, but in practice, I haven’t received any response from the Ministry’s communication department in three years. It’s appalling.

 I work on lots of other subjects, some of which are highly sensitive, but I never contend with this level of opacity.

Clara Monnoyeur. There was a clear shift after the controversy about the go-karting race organised at Fresnes Prison. Before this event, the communication department of the prison service gave at least brief responses to our requests. Now, everything is locked down, and facility management systematically direct everyone to the Ministry, which often settles for copying and pasting excerpts from legal texts. Even the local stakeholders who would like to share information ultimately give up because it can take weeks or even months to obtain authorisation.

Prison is really a closed wall in every way. The fear of speaking out is palpable at every level. Thankfully, there are exceptions: some directors are relieved when we come to see the prison conditions, overcrowding and the worsening working conditions for prison officers.