‘Can you imagine knowing that you might have to spend the rest of your life in this place?  Because, quite frankly, I can’t.’ We are standing in a wide, concrete, windowless corridor; it is soul-less, and draughty, and uninspiring.  The speaker is Rev Paul Foster, an Anglican priest; and the place he is talking about, and where we are chatting, is Whitemoor, a high security prison near March in Cambridgeshire.

Whitemoor is a Category A men’s prison; it houses around 450 of the most dangerous men in Britain, and past and present inmates include Jeremy Bamber (who was convicted in 1986 of murdering five members of his adoptive family) and Michael Sams (who kidnapped and murdered 17-year-old Julie Dart in 1991) as well as terrorist extremists.   Most people would rather walk ten miles in the opposite direction than have anything to do with this place or its residents: but for Rev Foster, who is part of the six-strong chaplaincy team at the prison, this is where he spends much of every day, working alongside the men Britain would rather forget.
Most people would rather walk ten miles in the opposite direction than have anything to do with this place or its inmates
It is, as Rev Foster says, a cheerless place – and it is indeed difficult to imagine what it must be like to wake up in a cell here every day, unsure of whether you’ll ever live anywhere else again. And, while prisons certainly aren’t supposed to be holiday resorts, this one seems particularly bleak; and it’s clear that one of the things the chaplains most strive to do, is to inject a bit of humanity.

What’s most fascinating about the chaplaincy team at Whitemoor, though, is its religious make-up: because as well as Rev Foster, and a Catholic deacon-in-training Joseph Cote, there are two imams – Tariq Mahmood, and Assad Ali Shah.  The prison team, in fact, is one of the best examples in Britain of ecumenism in action.  ‘And the important thing,’ says Imam Mahood, who is the overall co-ordinating chaplain, ‘is that we respect one another’s faith – which, of course, we all do’.

We might call it going to confession – they would call it ‘fessing up to stuff

As Imam Mahood explains, ecumenism in chaplaincies isn’t unusual – but in the outside world, the level of co-operation achieved between the different chaplains at Whitemoor would be almost unparalleled.  And that’s because, as Rev Foster explains, they’re all dedicated to the same aim – to make a real difference to the lives of Whitemoor’s prisoners, and its staff.

But what precisely is that difference?  ‘The truth is, it’s difficult to quantify,’ says Rev Foster.  ‘But what I’d say is, we are the listeners.  We listen to people’s problems; sometimes we can help, but other times they just want to offload, and they can offload onto us.

‘There are so many tensions in prison – prisoners have so little control over their lives, and that means that even tiny things can turn into big issues.  I think we help keep the place calm; there’s evidence that the men who join in chaplaincy life are calmer, and more switched-on.’

We have moved to chat in the large, airy chapel with its huge expanse of wooden floor; and this, explains Rev Foster, is an important part of the prison for everyone.  ‘It’s different from everywhere else here – it always feels special,’ he explains.

Amongst the many services the chaplaincy offers to the prisoners is the chance to take part in courses – including restorative justice courses.  ‘It’s about taking responsibility for what we’ve done,’ explains Rev Foster.  ‘We might call it going to confession – they would call it ‘fessing up to stuff’. But whatever you call it, the important thing is to be truly sorry, and to realise the huge ripple effect that crime has on others.

‘During our courses we invite people who have been victims of crimes to come in and tell their stories.  For them, it’s very cathartic – and often, it helps the person who’s been on the receiving end come to terms with what’s happened to them.’
They’re on their own for at least 23 hours out of 24, which is really tough
One thing the chaplaincy has spearheaded – at Whitemoor as elsewhere – is the importance of treating prisoners with proper respect.  ‘Things have changed a lot over the last few years, and there’s no doubt that prisoners get more respect than they once did,’ he explains.  ‘And chaplains were at the forefront of that change – for example, chaplains were the first people inside the prison service to call prisoners by their first names.’

In fact offering the hand of friendship is what prison chaplains excel at: as we are chatting, Joseph Cote – the Catholic chaplain at Whitemoor – arrives back at the chapel after meeting with prisoners.  ‘I’ve just spent an hour and a half talking to the guys who are being segregated from the rest of the prison,’ he explains.  ‘They’re on their own for at least 23 hours out of 24, which is really tough.  Some of them don’t trust the officers...but they trust the chaplains, and it doesn’t matter what faith you are or what faith they are, they often want to talk about anything – food, books, what they’re studying.’

The crucial thing, explains Joseph, is to keep in mind that prisoners – though they’ve been sentenced for a crime – aren’t lesser human beings than anyone else.  ‘I think that all the time – there’s not one guy in here who I’d see as less than me,’ he says.  ‘Because the truth is that I’ve done things that were wrong in my time, just like everyone else.  But the difference with the prisoner was that his wrong was criminal...but that doesn’t make him worse than me...’

Over in the main office block of Whitemoor, governor Paul Cawkwell  says he has the highest regard for the chaplaincy team, and would never underestimate the chaplains’ importance to the prison overall.  ‘I wouldn’t dream of running this prison without the pastoral care of the chaplains,’ he says. ‘I rely on the chaplains to provide strong leadership – when you’re dealing with terrorist prisoners, you’ve got to make sure that the message you’re giving is the right message.’

Mr Cawkwell, who’s 42, is one of the youngest prison governors in the UK – and this is his second career.  ‘I was a banker with Coutt’s, but I always wanted to work in public service,’ he explains.  ‘I took a pay cut to move to work at Whitemoor, and I started as a prison officer and did five years on the landings.’

Right from the start, he says, he knew it was the right job for him.  ‘I was raised a Catholic – I was an altar boy – and Catholicism had been my moral compass, it was my guiding principle.  One crucial thing it taught me was not to judge people  – and that’s something that remains important in my life today.’