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Published onOct 28, 2024
Book reviews

Solitary: Unbroken by four decades in solitary confinement. My story of transformation and hope
Albert Woodfox
Grove Press, 2019 pp 448
ISBN: 978080214830

‘Prison is prison,’ Woodfox writes. ‘First you figure out the routine, which doesn’t take long because every day is the same. Then you learn the culture and how to play between the lines’ (59).

Throughout the long history of prison narratives, few stories cover a period of internment as long as Solitary does. Additionally, even fewer former convicts have articulated and critiqued the African American prisoner experience like Albert Woodfox in his 2019 memoir. As much a story of hope and resilience as survival in isolation, it is the author’s consistent optimism and refusal to succumb to emotions that will destroy him, that situate this text as an enduring example of both prison literature and exemplary activism.

Wrongfully convicted alongside two others (the Angola 3) for the murder of a prison guard, while serving a sentence for armed robbery at Louisiana State Penitentiary (Angola Prison), Woodfox spent 43 years in solitary confinement. Here in this cell, where much of the memoir takes place, Woodfox emphasises the importance of free and broad thinking, which was paramount to his mental strength and courage. When put into solitary confinement, he writes: ‘At first I ignored the pressure of the cell ... And I never for one moment thought I’d be confined to such a small area for more than a few weeks or months at the most’ (107).

The conditions were gruelling, and Woodfox and the other prisoners spoke through walls, banged on pipes and passed notes to communicate. Despite the regular struggle of appeals and court proceedings, he writes: ‘I transformed my cell, which was supposed to be a confined space of destruction and punishment, into something positive. I used that space to educate myself ... to build strong moral character ... to develop principles and a strong code of conduct ... for everything other than what my captors intended it to be’ (206). Woodfox and the other confined prisoners did this through extensive reading, debating and testing, which highlighted a focus on knowledge that became fundamental to Woodfox’s survival for decades to come.

This memoir of violence, isolation and philosophy illuminate the harsh realities of prisoner experience at the largest maximum-security penitentiary in the USA, but more prominently, the importance of friendship and solidarity that Woodfox finds with his co-accused and the other ‘14 personalities I couldn’t get away from’ (206). In solitary confinement, as a member of the prison’s own chapter of the Black Panther Party, Woodfox advocated for better conditions for prisoners. Meetings were organised, punishments were implemented and, ultimately, changes were made for the better. This ambition is consistent throughout the memoir, and despite the period the narrative covers, Woodfox’s resolve doesn’t weaken; in fact, it strengthens.

The early stages of the text detail his subsequent stints incarcerated in his teenage years, culminating in his 1969 sentencing of 50 years for armed robbery, which he was serving when the murder occurred. Freely admitting his own wrongdoings, Woodfox spends a great deal of time describing and putting the US judicial system under the microscope. Sentencing and appeal processes are described in rich detail, highlighting sometimes staggering inconsistencies in the proceedings. However, his time enduring the 23 hours-per-day solitary confinement area of the prison (CCR) is where Woodfox’s story becomes not just a memoir of adversity, but a plea for prison reform.

The text is at its most shocking as it continually anchors within the four walls of his 6-foot by 9-foot cell. It is here that the author’s exploration of what can only be described as philosophy is developed, reminding the readers that despite a free mind, Woodfox is confined to an unimaginable extent.

Woodfox’s use of the senses to best describe the environment of 23- hour solitary confinement is immersive. Whether it is severe bouts of claustrophobia or violence, he does so as if each hardship is encountered in a new space. He writes: ‘living in concrete ... sound bounces off the floors and walls and echoes’, and that some of his fellow prisoners ‘would moan for hours or days’ (175). He remains active, moving around the cell to read or exercise, writing: ‘I lightly box the walls, my knuckles have calluses on them from boxing the wall’ (213).

The profound impact of Solitary in shedding light on the plight of a wrongfully accused black prisoner is only surpassed by Woodfox’s remarkable determination and unwavering optimism in the direst circumstances. This resilience is the underlying theme of the book, where the belief that survival in solitary confinement in prison is primarily mental rather than physical. Woodfox’s ability to keep his mind free from aggression and bitterness is his guiding light and, despite his unimaginably small physical space, his perspective is vast.

Upon finishing the book, there is a resounding triumph for Woodfox (and the reader) when he finally is set free. He must relearn how to move freely and without constraint. However, the sense of achievement is short-lived as we learn Woodfox died six years after his release.

In the epilogue, a 69-year-old Woodfox writes: ‘In my mind, heart, soul and spirit I always felt free, so my attitudes and thoughts didn’t change much after I was released. But to be in my physical body in the physical world again was like being newly born’ (405).

Joe Patterson


The war came to us: Life and death in Ukraine
Christopher Miller
Bloomsbury Continuum, 2023 pp 374
ISBN: 9781399406857

As seen elsewhere in this special issue on writing and confinement, warzone writing provides a uniquely confined environment, whether reporting from the frontlines or peripherally. The war came to us offers both perspectives in its discussion of the war in Ukraine, with this 50-chapter, four-part book covering not only the current nationwide conflict which broke out in 2022, but what led to it over the decade prior.

The confinement Christopher Miller, other journalists and Ukraine’s civilians were forced into on 22 February 2022 is immediately illustrated in the book’s prologue. The explosion of cruise missiles broke the dawn’s silence, marking the beginning of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, as a group of journalists, staying at a hotel, were instructed to retreat to the confined safety of the bomb shelter.

For a dozen news hounds, the emotions were mixed as they ‘banged away on their laptops and phones in the musty bomb shelter’ (xxii), connected to the rest of the world via social media yet still stuck amid a deadly offensive. Miller notes that ‘staff and security were trying to keep order in a room full of journalists who were simultaneously filled with dread and exhilarated by the promise of a huge story they were smack in the middle of’ (xx). Such is the depth of what led to this war, it takes 257 pages for Miller to finally circle back to this moment.

The book begins with a reflection on Miller’s introduction to life in Ukraine as a volunteer with the United States Peace Corps – the decision to apply being driven by the dwindling number of journalism jobs in Portland, Oregon, where he had been a local music and political reporter for the past four years. Although hoping to go to sub-Saharan Africa, he was instead sent to Ukraine, a country he knew ‘almost nothing about’ (3).

Working as a teacher in a school, he was ‘the one and only American in Artemvisk’ (8), and as such, he and his pupils learned in confluence – they about American culture and the English language, and he about Ukraine and the Russian and Ukrainian languages, neither of which he knew a word of upon arrival. Many of the friends he made during this time reappear throughout the course of the book, spanning the next 13 years. However, the more he learned about the country, the more his desire to understand and report on Ukraine’s complexities overtook his interest in his work with the Peace Corps.

After travelling to China in late 2012 where he met his now-wife before
briefly returning to Portland, he was drawn back to Ukraine by a job
with the Kyiv Post newspaper. It was during this time he reported on
escalating tensions between Moscow and Kyiv during the Euromaidan
protests, which offered him a first taste of reporting from the frontlines
and a view of the patriotism that united the Ukrainian people during
this time. book

Following a series of long, scene-setting introductory paragraphs in parts one and two which delve into the intricacies of Ukraine and its relationship with Russia, part three – ‘War’ – breaks out into a staccato of short chapters, some as curt as two pages, matching the machine gun fire which punctuated the conflict between the two nations. Throughout this section, Miller has a front-row seat to the annexation by Russia of the Crimean Peninsula in 2014.

In reporting on this conflict, he learns how to navigate Russian military checkpoints in the area and the expectations the ‘Donetsk People’s Republic’ (DNR) and ‘Luhansk People’s Republic’ (LNR) had for journalists – including which documents to show or not, what affirmations to make and when not to obtain press accreditation to move around the area.

An interaction with one press secretary he was familiar with stands out: ‘I will approve your accreditation [but] I need you to do something for me ... Please, write the truth. I read some of your articles and I don’t think you are writing the truth,’ she barters with him. ‘Of course, I knew what she meant. She meant she wanted me to write her truth. The DNR/Russia truth,’ he concludes (155).

Miller also details how, during the emergence of the current conflict, he had to think on his feet in terms of how to station himself to report on the conflict. While many journalists fled after consulting with their security teams, he and his two BuzzFeed News colleagues were allowed to make the decision to stay themselves, drawing upon the network of connections they had developed to find a home in a gated community outside Kyiv to base themselves at, while renting cars to get a fresh tank of fuel when the ‘stations were running dry’ due to the closure of the airports and sea ports (275).

These sections of the book not only show Miller’s resourcefulness as a reporter on the ground, but also his proficiency at immersing the reader in these troubling, traumatic scenes, conveying the feelings of worry, uncertainty, distress and bloodshed in a way which can’t help but make you empathise with the plight of the innocent civilians caught in the middle of a war no one had asked for.

If there is one line which best portrays just how confining and isolating it felt in this now-war-torn part of the world, it is a reflection from 25 February 2022, a few days after the currently ongoing war broke out. ‘It felt like a scene from an apocalypse movie where the main characters wake up to find themselves the last people left on earth,’ Miller reflects as he walks Kyiv’s once busy but now completely emptied streets wearing a flak jacket and helmet (270-271). It paints a harrowing picture of the confinement – or escape – an entire country was forced into.

Patrick Jackson, University of South Australia, Adelaide

Note on the contributor

Patrick Jackson is a journalism coordinator and tutor at the University of South Australia and a freelance journalist. He most recently completed First Class Honours in 2023 with a practice-led research project on immersive journalism using 360-degree video and virtual reality technology, for which he was awarded the UniSA Chancellor’s Letter of Commendation. He has also been a published journalist since 2016, primarily producing automotive content for a variety of online and print publications both in Australia and overseas.

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