Madagascar: "everything is heavy and dark here"

Tsiafahy, Monday 30 May 2022.

My name is Paul Rafanoharana Maillot and I am 59 years old. On 4 August 2021, we were sent to Tsiafahy prison in Madagascar as political prisoners. This prison is reputed to be one of the worst in the world. Having spent over ten months unjustly and arbitrarily imprisoned here, along with my companions in misfortune, I can say that this reputation is justified.

I was sentenced to 20 years of forced labour on 17 December of last year after an irregular arrest, a hurried investigation and a grotesque trial that defied all the rules of law. Although I should have re-joined the regular prisoners by now, I am still in solitary confinement. The solitary confinement unit is supposed to serve as a short-term punishment for disciplinary infractions, and is seen as “the prison within the prison”.

From between my four walls, I can say that the prison is truly “fonja”, a Madagascan word that means “house of heaviness”.

Everything is heavy here, like the concrete walls that imprison us and exacerbate the summer heat and winter cold to almost unbearable levels.

Everything is heavy here, like the stifling atmosphere generated by 1000 prisoners in four wings built for 500, or 200 prisoners in a space built for 50.

Everything is heavy here, like the foul smells that emanate from the sewers, or the human waste in wings that have no running water and only two toilets and three showers each.

Everything is heavy here, like the staggering number of remand prisoners (almost a third of all prisoners), or the shocking number of prisoners serving a life sentence, which is almost half of them.

Everything is heavy here, like the metabolisms of the prisoners who only get one meal a day: a meagre plate of lentils, accompanied on alternating days by corn, cassava, or rice.

Everything is heavy here, like the horrifying cries of a prisoner dying through lack of medical treatment that ring out in the silence of the night about once per month.

From between my four walls, I can say that the five solitary confinement cells are truly “tranomaizina”, another Madagascan word that means “house of darkness”.

Everything is dark here, like the permanent gloom in my 4m × 3m cell with its dark and dirty walls, and where I spend almost all my time as I am only allowed out for a daily walk of 30 minutes to an hour. Everything is dark here, like the extremely sparse and almost monastic furniture, comprising only a bucket and a bare camp bed. Everything is dark here, like the eye of the camera that films me constantly and strips me of any privacy. Everything is dark here, like the rare, brief, closely monitored visits that take place twice per week and last for 15 minutes. Everything is dark here, like the proselytising for a single religion over the prison’s loudspeakers. Everything is dark here, like the constant extension of our solitary confinement, with the longest period so far being two months. Everything is dark here, like the incorporation of customs from outside, where corruption reigns and the exploitation of the weakest by the powerful is the norm.

Everything we are experiencing in here recalls Nelson Mandela’s words in his memoir: “A nation should not be judged by how it treats its highest citizens, but its lowest ones… and South Africa treated its imprisoned African citizens like animals”.

In 2022, Madagascar still treats its prisoners like animals, even though the prison officers are fellow human beings who simply do as they are told.

The people who give them their orders are all too aware that heaviness is resisted by the purity of ideas, hearts, and souls, and that these can never be imprisoned, especially when they are in the service of goodness. In the same way, darkness stands in contrast to the light of the infinite love of our families and friends, who carry us, and the unconditional and merciful love of the Almighty, who transports us far beyond these four prison walls.

Places like Tsiafahy should not exist; sadly, they are all too real.