Before that is misunderstood, let me be clear. I cherish my family, my friends, my office, and the freedom of my current life. I have absolutely no desire to return to Waikeria, to Nikau Unit, to Cell 68. And yet, despite that, there is something about prison life that I unexpectedly miss.
The other day, while struggling to focus on a project amid the comforts and distractions of home, it struck me what that was. I missed the clarity. The focus. In my cell, meditation came easily. Concentration was almost effortless. That may sound strange, but the very limitations of that space fostered a mental freedom that is difficult to achieve in ordinary life, where even good things become distractions.
Perhaps it resembles the life of a monk—a path I might have chosen in another time. A closed community. A rigid routine that allows space for both sacred reflection and practical work. That enforced simplicity echoes something I experienced in prison. I imagine retreating to a quiet library, studying without the constant pull of the village. Is my longing for the cell, then, an idealisation of that possibility—a glimpse of a life oriented toward focus and contemplation?
This is a thought experiment, nothing more. If forced to choose, I would always choose my family. But that does not negate the unique introspection those long evenings in the cell allowed. In that isolation, my imagination wandered to places that are difficult to reach in the noise and momentum of normal existence. It was there that I connected with myself at a depth I had rarely known.
The Unexpected Simplicity of Prison
My cell was more than four walls and a metal door. It was a world unto itself—a confined sanctuary, a canvas for thought.
It measured roughly three metres deep and two and a half metres wide. A solid green door with a heavy bolt lock opened onto a grey-and-white vinyl floor patterned like worn wooden boards. To the left stood a green-painted desk, just large enough to eat at, paired with an uncomfortable bench seat. On it were a few books, pens, and a radio positioned near the power outlet.
Opposite the desk was a small window, often partially covered by curtains to minimise distraction. Regulations required a ten-centimetre gap so officers could see inside—an uneasy compromise between privacy and surveillance. Behind the bench was the bed: uneven wood and the thinnest mattress imaginable. It served for sleeping, reading, writing, playing cards, and folding origami, but not necessarily a comfortable night of sleep.
Beside it stood the toilet. A plastic chair sat awkwardly between bed and bowl, and a sink faced them both. A small bookcase and shelf held my personal items: writing paper, my Bible, theological texts, and whatever book I was reading and annotating at the time. Next to a small dividing wall between the door and the sink and toilet, I leaned the church guitar I was responsible for.
The cell was designed to be basic—functional rather than comfortable. It gave you what you needed to exist in that moment in time, but little more. And yet, when the prison locked down for the night, an unusual quiet descended. The noise of the day faded, replaced by distant televisions, muffled music, and the occasional footsteps of a guard peering through the small window in the door.
In that quiet, it became easy to imagine myself elsewhere. To escape the physical confines of prison and wander freely in the mind. And in that immersion, I found a liberation that contradicted the cell’s intended purpose.
I used to joke with other inmates about it. When they said they were heading back to their cells, I’d say, “I’m going to my university,” or sometimes, “I’m visiting my chalet.” One inmate, Mike, once looked at me and said, “Malcolm, it’s not a bloody chalet—it’s your cell.”
“Yes,” I replied, “but today it’s my chalet because today I don’t hate it.”
Different seasons altered the experience. In winter, a pipe along the back wall carried heated water to warm the cell. In summer, with minimal ventilation, temperatures could climb into the high thirties and even the low forties. We were given a small fan, ice blocks, water, and cloths we could soak and place on our skin to cool down.
So no—the cell should not be idealised in physical terms. It was often uncomfortable, sometimes unbearable. But mentally, something emerged that exceeded the discomfort.
At Springhill, early in my sentence, lockdown meant being confined for 22 to 23 hours a day. At Waikeria, the schedule loosened, but I still spent long stretches alone in that cell. And during those quiet lockdown periods, when the unit settled and the world narrowed, the experience took on its deeper character.
Have you ever noticed how silence can shape your thinking more than activity ever does? That was the quiet power of the cell for me.
The Mental Clarity of Confinement
At the beginning, there was no clarity at all. The first year was difficult—mentally, emotionally, spiritually. But over time, something changed.
During lockdown, when everything quietened, I could sit in the stillness. Perhaps a slight breeze came through the window gap. The fan would hum softly, just enough to suggest movement. With pen and paper, or sometimes with nothing but thoughts, I could write—or simply think.
It felt like a switch being turned off. The noise, the unpredictability, the arguments, the movement of eighteen men in close quarters—all of it receded. The distractions dissolved.
What remained was calm. A stillness like a midsummer afternoon when the world seems to pause. In that quiet, the mind could stretch. Thoughts could roam, reflect, meditate. It became possible to enter a different register of awareness—one rarely accessible in ordinary life.
Have you ever experienced a moment where the world slows enough for your thoughts to truly breathe? That was what the cell allowed me to do daily.
The Illusion of Control
Prison is control. Time, movement, space, work, association—everything is regulated. Razor wire, locked doors, constant surveillance. Control is not subtle; it announces itself continually.
And yet, here is the paradox.
Your body is controlled. Your time is controlled. Your environment is controlled. But your mind—your mind remains your own.
In those moments of absolute external control—lockdowns, lock-ins, isolation—I discovered a form of internal freedom. I no longer had to think as a minister bound to expectation and performance. I no longer had to decide how to dress; we all wore the same clothes. I no longer had to manage endless choices, notifications, opinions, or demands.
There were no emails. No phone calls. No news feeds. No social pressure. The most significant decision I faced was which limited television channel to watch or which music to play.
Stripped of external noise, I was free to think honestly. To challenge beliefs I had carried unquestioned. To allow existential crises to become meaningful rather than suppressed. Reflection became my work. Meaning-making became my function.
The Dangers of Idealising Prison
This must be said clearly.
Some people develop a revolving-door relationship with prison. Life inside feels simpler than life outside. Expectations are lower. Identity is fixed. For some, repeated incarceration becomes normalised.
But prison is not an ideal way to live. For many, it is a trap they never escape. The psychological damage can be profound—depression, emotional numbness, neurological harm caused by prolonged stress and suffering. Associations harden. Identity collapses into survival.
Prison is dangerous. It is unsafe. It is unhealthy.
I am not arguing otherwise.
I am simply saying that, within that harsh reality, I encountered something paradoxical.
Conclusion
I am not claiming victory over prison. It has taken a high price on my body. I now face surgery—possibly more than one—due to long-term stress and anxiety. I struggle with trust. I carry deep scepticism toward institutions, particularly the law and police. I have seen how narratives, lies, and social dynamics can ruin lives.
Prison harmed me. There is no denying that.
And yet—within that harm, there were moments of freedom. Moments when clarity emerged precisely because control was absolute. In the later years of my sentence, I learned something about the mind that has stayed with me.
Now, living on parole at home, I carry those lessons forward. My writing, my books, my projects all bear the mark of disciplines forged in solitude. The physical cost has been high, but something of value was discovered in suffering.
Prison is not to be idealised. It is not to be desired. But its echo remains with me. And sometimes, as I seek that same clarity in freedom, I remember the paradox: that even in confinement, the mind—if tended carefully—can still be free.
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