Abstract
Much scholarship has been devoted to the question of whether therapeutic interventions in prisons constitute a more humane, supportive counterweight to more punitive aspects of punishment. An alternative view is that they represent an invasive, controlling and punitive force in their own right. This article explores how drug recovery units in Norwegian prisons are perceived as being safer, more therapeutically beneficial and more privileged environments than other prison units, yet simultaneously more challenging, punitive, and at times, more painful places to be. Drawing on ethnographic fieldwork and 55 interviews (33 prisoners and 22 staff members), the article uses the concepts of penal tightness, depth and weight to analyse how these units’ hybrid nature, as simultaneously treatment and punishment, contributes to a uniquely ‘tight’ form of imprisonment.
Introduction
Therapeutic interventions for drug recovery in prisons are often highlighted as markers of progressive criminal justice policies, symbolic of macro-level interest in ideals of reintegration and desistance (Grace et al., 2016; Hearty et al., 2016). Prison staff working with these interventions or programmes often view themselves, and are viewed by others, as having a softer, less traditionally punitive approach: as ‘warm and fuzzy’ helpers that offer an alternative to the more painful aspects of imprisonment (Lloyd et al., 2017; Nylander et al., 2011). Whether treatment offered within the context of punishment can genuinely be regarded as therapeutic, or if the penal context inevitably shapes these interventions to become more punitive, has been the subject of ongoing debate (Haney, 2010; Kaye, 2020; Rhodes, 2004). This argument contends that treatment offered within prison may simply be a further extension of punishment, dressed differently; as Hall (2016: 212) suggests, that ‘as part of an overall punitive approach, even the most positive programme can be used as a disciplinary, punitive tool’.
There is also significant evidence to suggest that drug treatment in particular – both in strictly clinical settings and when intertwined with criminal justice measures, as is often the case – can be experienced as moralistic and controlling. At the same time, entering into treatment is often a deciding factor in ongoing desistance and reintegrating into society (Link et al., 2019; Skjærvø et al., 2021), Evidence suggests that in-prison therapeutic community models (TCs), particularly when combined with sufficient follow-up and community aftercare upon release, seem to be effective for maintaining desistance for longer periods (Aslan, 2018). Prison is often thought of as a ‘golden opportunity’ for providing treatment and assistance for drug use (Jobling et al., 2023). This paper seeks to further this discussion by closely examining the experiential dimension of prison-based drug recovery units (DRUs) in Norway through the lenses of the ‘depth’, ‘weight’ and ‘tightness’ of imprisonment (Crewe, 2011). Depth refers to the sense of being buried within the prison system, far from release. Weight embodies the sense of being burdened – physically and mentally – by one's incarceration, such as by reduced quality of life, lacking material conditions and relationships with staff and peers (Crewe et al., 2014). Tightness, or alternatively, grip, refers to the psychological turmoil associated with attempting to progress through the system or access support; and uncertainty around decision-making in a system that continually requires self-regulation and accountability on the part of the prisoner (Crewe, 2011).
The pains of penal hybridity
Recovery and desistance in themselves are often extraordinarily painful processes: from ‘rock bottom moments’ that can act as motivators towards change, to setbacks that may impede one's attempts to recover or lead to relapse (Patton and Best, 2024). Genuine desire for and commitment to change can nevertheless be thwarted by the sheer volume of structural barriers involved in navigating desistance and the chaotic nature of life after release (Halsey et al., 2017). In addition, various therapeutic interventions intersecting with the criminal justice system, such as drug courts, therapeutic communities (TCs) and other forms of court-mandated treatment for drug use and other concerns, have been described as strict, regimented and painful (Bourgois and Schӧnberg, 2009; Garcia, 2010; Haney, 2010; Kaye, 2020; Stevens, 2013). A common thread within these accounts is an inherent contract between staff and their clients: granting of privileges or doling out sanctions is often relative to one's degree of success in performing ‘technologies of the self’ (Foucault, 1988) at the behest of staff. Garcia (2010: 16) depicts an environment of ‘tough love’, where there are firm moral boundaries for acceptable behaviour: those who fail to conform to the strict therapeutic landscape and expectations (for whatever reason), are criticised for lacking the motivation or discipline to ‘save’ themselves from their abjection. Conceptual framings of drug treatment as painful, tough, or hard work are also present outside of prison: from the rhetoric of ‘doing the work’/‘working the steps’ in 12-step programs (Mappledoram et al., 2024), to the ‘tiring and relentless’ nature of inpatient programs, in some cases leading to patient discontinuation (Prangley et al., 2018). The ‘confrontational’ approach taken by TCs in particular, has been suggested to account for their high attrition rates (Springer et al., 2003).
Returning to the criminal justice system, prisoners in Stevens’ (2013) study of democratic TCs in the United Kingdom reported ambivalence towards continuing in the programs due to their intensity. In a study of an opioid agonist therapy unit in a Norwegian prison, prisoners were openly critical of elements of the regime they experienced as ‘repressive and degrading’, rather than rehabilitative (Mjåland, 2016). Mjåland and Lundeberg's (2014) study of a Norwegian DRU describes these units as ‘hybrids’ of punishment and rehabilitation. Being admitted to the unit granted prisoners better material conditions, as well as access to many potential benefits (such as increased leave permissions), which were intrinsically connected to potential sanctions (loss of income, solitary confinement or being sent back to a more restrictive unit). Staff also held considerable discretionary powers to either reward, or sanction, based on close and constant evaluation of prisoners – their ‘behaviour, talk and appearance’ (Mjåland and Lundeberg, 2014). The resulting environment thus becomes ‘tight’ (Crewe, 2011): regulations and decisions can feel opaque to prisoners attempting to navigate and progress through the system, often ‘walking on eggshells’ and engaging in ruthless self-governance in order to demonstrate that they have changed and are thus deserving of certain privileges. At the same time, DRUs are also in some ways ‘shallower’ (Pakes, 2023) than other closed units, both in presenting opportunities for social reintegration and in being conceptually distanced from the deeper outposts of the prison system, albeit still being linked to these through the threat of sanctions.
Drug recovery units in the Norwegian prison system
Specialised DRUs became a prominent feature of Norwegian prisons after the turn of the millennium, at a time of an increased policy focus on rehabilitation and prisoner welfare, as part of the government's ‘reintegration guarantee’ (Ugelvik, 2016). These units usually have up to 20 places granted on a voluntary application basis, and a designated staff consisting of prison officers, healthcare personnel and social and/or drug counsellors (Mjåland and Lundeberg, 2014). These units’ primary focus is addiction (drugs, alcohol and gambling), although they do not fall under the category of drug treatment, legally speaking (Kolind et al., 2015). For a more detailed description of these units, selection of applicants and the role of staff, see Lunde (2024). Although not defined as treatment per se – and importantly, not as therapeutic communities – these units do bear similarities to these models in terms of design and therapeutic values: emphasising a stable community and user empowerment (Kressel et al., 2000) as well as utilising structured programs that build upon theoretical concepts such as the Good Lives Model (Koffeld-Hamidane et al., 2024).
The notion that punishment should be a force for change is closely tied to the Norwegian correctional services’ policy of providing ‘punishment that works’ (Fredwall, 2017), as well as its overarching motto ‘change through punishment’ (Nilsen and Bagreeva, 2020). The implication is that an effective punishment is one that intervenes with care: ‘picking up’ prisoners and shaping their futures in a firm, yet supportive manner, through what Crewe and Ievins (2021) also term ‘institutional grip’. Liebling et al. (2021) describe Norwegian prison staff as having a ‘pedagogic’ and ‘arguably paternalistic’ approach, focused on reintegration. The Norwegian idiom of returning ‘good neighbours’ is one that the correctional services takes seriously (Fredwall, 2022) including in the involvement of healthcare, welfare and third-party organisations (Ugelvik, 2016). The Norwegian prison system is also regularly touted as one of the most humane in the world, given the relatively low rates of imprisonment and perceived superiority of prison conditions (Crewe et al., 2023; Pratt and Eriksson, 2013). Yet it has also been argued that the Norwegian state (along with its Nordic neighbours) demonstrates tendencies towards significant, invasive control in the lives of its residents, especially those caught in the criminal justice system's web (Barker, 2013; Smith, 2017). Within this paradigm, questions of what characteristics make interventions, programs or treatments more punitive and controlling, or more helpful and caring, loom large. Life in shallower prisons with fewer static security measures may also be affected by an accompanying increased focus on impending social reintegration and the attendant need to demonstrate change, resulting in a tighter, more painful experience (Crewe and Ievins, 2021; Shammas, 2014). The connection between the depth of imprisonment and the experience of pain is thus complex and nonlinear. The presence of both penal and therapeutic powers, in a system where intervention and change are seen as the ultimate form of care, may therefore open for micro-level ‘pockets of punitiveness’ (Laursen and Taxhjelm, this issue): arenas that are ostensibly humane and relatively shallow, yet with subjectively punitive facets.
Methods
The data used in this article come from ethnographic fieldwork from four closed (high-security) prisons (one women's establishment; three men's) in Norway, conducted between July 2021 and April 2022, together with 55 interviews conducted during this period across the aforementioned four prisons and one open (low-security) men's prison. Two of the prisons visited during the field study had DRUs and one had a DRU-style programme not connected to a physical unit. I spent much of my time on the DRUs, however also visited other units for ‘shifts’ here and there, wherever I was granted access. Fieldwork days consisted of participatory observation, often in the sense of informal ‘hanging out’ and conversing during other activities like drinking coffee and playing card games, in addition to joining group programs and activities.
Of the interviews, 30 were carried out with current prisoners, the majority of whom were sentenced. Three participants had been released from prison at the time of interview. A minority were on remand or serving indeterminate sentences. Thirty were men and three were women, ranging in age from 19 to 58. Many of the 33 were currently serving time on DRUs or had done so previously, and/or had additional experience of other forms of drug treatment. Twenty-two additional interviews were carried out with prison staff (13 women and 9 men), including but not limited to, officers, managerial staff, counsellors and health personnel. Where excerpts from staff interviews are used to support findings, they are specified as such. Five interviews were conducted together with another researcher and the rest alone. Anonymised transcriptions and fieldnotes were coded using NVivo's software. All interviews used in the study were coded with the help of a codebook, or framework made up of both predetermined, deductive codes (such as ‘DRUs’), and inductive, more directly data-driven codes that were added over the course of the analysis period (Mayan, 2023), divided into broader categories, such as drug use, prisoner health and crime. All interviews were analysed using this method to extract numerous sets of potentially relevant data for this article, which were then compiled and analysed in greater detail using the coding framework as a guide. This study has been approved by the Norwegian Centre for Research Data on behalf of the Norwegian Data Authority.
Findings
Privileges and ‘waffle imprisonment’
The DRUs I visited marked their segregation from other units through architectural and design differences, such as larger cells and common areas (Mjåland, 2016). DRU prisoners were usually exempt from work and instead expected to participate in activities as a group. On one DRU, officers ‘went civil’ (wore plainclothes) as did the social workers, and usually ate meals with prisoners, in contrast to the rest of the prison where prisoners were usually locked in their cells during staff breaks. The food provided by said DRU was fresher and more varied than that distributed elsewhere in the same prison. The DRUs bore similarities to other ‘contract units’ in the Norwegian system, whereby prisoners who have demonstrated good behaviour can be transferred to a unit with extra privileges, such as access to a shared kitchen and more recreational time outside of cells. It was also common for DRU staff to join prisoners in exercise or playing sports such as badminton. I accompanied prisoners and staff on group trips outside the prison to ramble in nature as well as on temporary licence visits to central Oslo. Accordingly, the DRUs were ‘shallower’ and ‘lighter’ (Crewe, 2011) than much of the prison system, even when they were contained in closed prisons: material conditions were improved, with the free world becoming closer and more tangible. This was explained as being part of the overall therapeutic design: for example, releases on temporary licence (accompanied and unaccompanied) were described as opportunities to ‘practice being in the community while sober’, as well as providing opportunities for prisoners to reconnect with partners and children outside of prison. Sigrid
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expressed that DRU prisoners were viewed by others as unduly privileged due to these trips and that this could cause tensions: It can be a bit difficult for the others […] to see us going out every Thursday [… ] we get comments like ‘oh you have to be an addict in order to go outside’, things like that. Like a bitterness about it all. In a way I get it, I might feel that way too if I wasn’t allowed out.
‘Prehab, not rehab’: DRUs as ‘treatment-like’
The DRUs were often referred to as ‘preparation’ for ‘real’ drug treatment, or as Niklas succinctly remarked, as ‘prehab, not rehab’. Many DRU prisoners planned to apply to inpatient treatment following their stay. 2 The unit was portrayed as a kind of stopover before entering treatment, and seen as conceptually more ‘treatment-adjacent’ (closer to or more like inpatient treatment) than other parts of the prison. Staff member Sofia said of one DRU: ‘[they’re] the best in my opinion; because they run it like a drug institution, 24/7, practically the same’. Staff member Katherine expressed that having previous experience with drug treatment institutions was often useful for DRU prisoners in that ‘they knew what to expect’ and thus adapted quicker to the unit. Combined with the additional benefits listed in the previous section, the state of being treatment-adjacent contributed to the DRUs' relative shallowness, versus other units. As most DRU prisoners were nearing the end of their sentence, considerable time was spent discussing and planning for either release or subsequent treatment.
Prisoners were expected to spend the majority of their time engaged in recovery work in the DRU programs rather than in other occupations: group sessions, meetings with staff and individual homework tasks. Group therapy programs were structured to give room to work through one's past, intensively and collectively. Building on these programs, prisoners were expected to contribute and share from their own lives, provide direct feedback and support to their peers, and receive feedback from staff. Kurt described the effect that these sessions had on him as being similar to psychological therapy: If [the themes] really affect me, give me a lot to think about later in the day and evening after lockup, that can make me crave drugs. Or it did at the start … but now I dare to actually think and not over-catastrophise in the same way I did when I first came [to prison]. When I came in I had a lot of guilt, shame and regret and struggled a lot with that. Now it's easier to tackle that, and everything else.
A different mentality
The DRUs were generally described as peaceful and ‘surprisingly secure’, with staff commenting that violent incidents were surprisingly seldom given ‘how much violence they’re [involved in], when they come from the [other units], or from outside … and relative to what they’re sentenced for’. Several participants reported having witnessed violent altercations on other closed units, although Norwegian prisons are, in general, experienced as safe (Martens and Crewe, 2024). The DRUs were also noticeably quieter than other units: in particular, the piercing of air by incident alarms and the sounds of officers running, was absent, contributing to an overall sense of distance and heightened safety from the rest of the prison. Safety was also demonstrated by the increased possibilities for recreational time outside of cells, and reduced supervision during evening and night shifts.
The overall safer environment was attributed in part to the ‘different mentality’ and the ways in which drugs and crime were discussed, as well as the physical absence of illicit drugs, with Kurt explaining that ‘on a normal unit there's more drugs in the picture anyway and people are unreliable, and you don’t really know where you have them, So, the [staff] are on guard all the time.’ Other closed units were often described as ‘schools for criminals’ where drug use ran rife, and where considerable resources were spent on maintaining order. In contrast, the DRUs were felt to be safer due to a lack of overt drug use and violence. As such, the ‘weight’ of disharmony and distrust amongst prisoners between prisoners and staff, and the burden of constantly watching for, or sensing danger, was lessened. The absence of drugs in this ‘lighter’ carceral space also allowed for emotional distance from temptation and protection from relapse (Crewe et al., 2011), thus creating ‘a laboratory of a stable social community’ (Stevens, 2013: 13). The DRUs thus had appreciable differences to other units with regards to how the social environment was experienced, as described by Rasmus: Socially I think the DRU is good. A good place to be while you’re inside. The community is different, the talk is different, if you look at guys who are on [other high security units], [there's] a totally different mentality. There it's talk about drugs, crime, all the time. Here we talk about other things. Still a bit of (crime talk) … because that's the one thing we all have in common, but surprisingly little to be in a prison. And that's nice. When I talk to the guys [on other closed units] they have to have a mask on, show that they’re tough criminals. [Here] they don’t have to show that they’re so tough, so strong, … it's a big difference, the power play, who you have to be up there. Here, they can be themselves in a lot of ways … feeling comfortable both in the group and daring to show themselves as vulnerable … we also work with things that are difficult, laden with taboo and shame. It's meant a lot to me … when they talk about how they experienced their upbringing, their adult life and how they think about what they’ve done. I thought I was alone, in my way of thinking, that I was extreme. But I’m not alone … I know I’m not broken, not alone. How I felt growing up, so different and so alone… but most of them also felt that way.
Drug testing, relapse and control
As shown previously, the perception of the DRUs as safe was largely attributed to the absence of drugs. This was controlled through both frequent testing and by staff encouraging prisoners to ‘tip them off’ if they suspected their peers of using drugs. Prisoners who returned an inconclusive or positive test result were usually sent back to high security while more thorough testing was conducted, as in the case of Charlie:
Charlie came back on the unit today and received hugs from some of the others, they talked about that it was good to have him back. They were also frustrated that he’d been sent back to [other closed unit] in the first place. He’d been back [there] for several days, on one of the so-called ‘restrictive units’, after what was apparently a false positive, while the staff waited to see what the extended test said [test was negative]. He professed his innocence the entire time. When he came back he seemed a bit subdued and didn’t want to talk about his experience… (field notes)
Charlie received a negative result and was allowed back after a short stint on a restrictive unit, however, ripples of unease spread through the unit after his first test; and he also appeared to have been affected negatively by the situation. On another occasion, suspicion of drug use resulting from a tip-off from another prisoner, Brandon, led to an emergency staff meeting on the DRU, with the unit head coming in on plainclothes on her day off to make plans about conducting drug tests, potentially bringing in a drug detection dog, and discussing how to handle the overall situation without alerting the rest of the unit.
The cases of Charlie and Brandon reflect the seriousness with which potential breaches were handled. Prevention of smuggling and relapse was a priority: drug tests of both urine and saliva were conducted more frequently on the DRUs than on other units. Staff member Morten explained that the testing regime was seldom challenged:
Interviewer: Do you meet any resistance? Morten: No, not here. None at all. They’ve given their consent, so, that's how it is. Some might think there's too few tests.
Whilst the testing regime had clearly defined boundaries and expectations, the units’ handling of relapse in general was not clearly defined. Staff also had a degree of discretionary power in enforcing disciplinary sanctions, stating that being ‘proactive’, admitting to relapse and asking for help, was viewed more positively than being caught with drugs or denying use in the face of a positive test. Alternative disciplinary measures such as one-on-one ‘drug conversations’ could also be employed, although staff remarked that these seldom took place due to a lack of training and resources, frequently referring to budget cuts in the wake of prior public sector reforms (Oppegaard et al., 2019). Reactions such as removal to a closed ward or temporary solitary confinement were therefore more common. Many prisoners felt that the potential for disciplinary reactions to relapse was overly punitive, and contradicted the units’ therapeutic values, as stated by Emil: If [you’re in] treatment, and you relapse, it's a part of the treatment. You made a mistake, and you have to learn from it. But in prison there's no learning process at all. It's just punishment. You lose your leave, or you’re transferred back to a higher security level. They don’t actually get to grips with why the person has used drugs… There's no correlation between what you do and the consequences you get.
Policing the personality
‘A lot of guys say, “don’t move onto the DRU, because they nag so much.” That's good, and how I want to it to be. We should be nagging. We aren’t going to let someone just be in peace’. – Joseph (staff member)
The DRU's focus on honesty, trust and self-development meant that ongoing communication, termed ‘giving feedback’ between staff and prisoners, and between prisoners and their peers, was a priority. Staff were allocated additional resources to follow up individual prisoners, and the group, closely, in order to maintain a therapeutic environment that fostered change. Prisoners were thus expected to tolerate being scrutinised and continually ‘poked at,’ in the words of staff member Morten, with Niklas saying the following, ‘it demands more of you, being here, than being on [high security]. Much more. You’ll be seen, and you have to do stuff, daily tasks, you have to change somehow, simmer down if nothing else’. On other closed units, where staff had comparatively limited time and resources, staff-prisoner relationships often mirrored more traditional top-down, hierarchical prison dynamics and the presence of penal power was viewed as insufficient and vague (Crewe and Ievins, 2021). By contrast, the increased ‘demands’ of continual observation, feedback and expectations on the DRUs contributed to an especially tight atmosphere. As Crewe and Ievins (2021) note, this form of tightness is often seen where expectations of therapeutic self-regulation are present. Prisoners were expected to, over time, display change through extensive ‘self-surveillance’, self-regulation (‘simmering down’, as Niklas suggests above) and what could be termed self-dissection: being open and vulnerable about one's past, emotions and thoughts, while under the constant scrutiny and evaluation of others. Tensions could arise if this self-dissection deviated from expected therapeutic narratives, with the dysfunctional self as a point of departure (Crewe and Ievins, 2021). Several prisoners expressed that conforming to expectations around behaviour were challenging, as Julian remarked: I mean we admit by coming here to the DRU, that we like drugs … you have to play ball, tell them what they want to hear to get somewhere, you know. I don’t play along at all, and it's not well looked upon. I’m seen as an arrogant person, quarrelsome, difficult. So, I get mostly no [to applications].
Verbal conflicts between prisoners also stirred beneath the calm surface of the DRU, although they seldom escalated beyond a heated exchange or slammed door. Living in physically close, and emotionally tight, quarters, could incite tensions, with the social atmosphere described as ‘cliquey’ and volatile at times. Disagreements familiar to any communal setting, such as differing standards of cleanliness, table manners or how much vocal commentary was permissible while watching the shared television, often arose. Staff also described how they gave feedback about irritating or messy habits to prisoners, remarking that some struggled to adapt due to lacking rudimentary skills for shared living, such as cleaning. In line with the unit's values of openness and providing feedback, prisoners were encouraged to communicate and work out everyday conflicts amongst themselves before involving staff.
More fundamental disagreements also arose, usually stemming from ideological disputes around how to talk about drugs and crime appropriately. The use of ‘gangster talk’ (Sandberg, 2009), referring to being seen as boasting about past exploits and glorifying a criminal lifestyle, was often subject to meta-discussion by staff and prisoners. The nature of the program meant that talking about these subjects was necessary, and much effort was devoted to articulating how to discuss drugs and crime in constructive ways and avoid glorification. However, both staff and prisoners acknowledged that ‘gangster talk’ was an issue, particularly when staff were not around to supervise conversations, as Andreas described:
Interviewer: Is there a lot of talk about crime, the past, on the DRU? Andreas: It's only that … the staff are like, people get triggered … [but] I feel like it's mainly the staff that have that attitude. We get told off for just talking about drugs … but not much else actually gets talked about. We’re in prison, that's what we have in common … we’re not sitting and rehabilitating each other, solving each other's problems. No one wants to admit they’re weak and don’t have anything on the outside, no it's ‘I have a house here, this car, apartment here…’ … It's only a few who are being encouraging, want to help each other. People want to be the best, that's how it is. You can’t get away from the [outside].
Demands, dead time and the desire for tightness
One of the most common refrains about the DRUs was that these units were ‘much more challenging’ environments to serve time in than other closed units, due to staff ‘demanding something of [prisoners]’. These demands were often invoked as a counterargument to the ‘privileges’ described elsewhere in this article, as summed up by Oscar: The sentence is better. People should apply to the DRU because they want to change. It's easier to be on another unit, than the DRU. On another unit you can lie around as much as you want, you can do as you like. But here, they require something of you, which I think is a good thing.
The DRU schedules were often tightly packed, with obligatory group therapy sessions, morning group meetings, collective check-ins and debriefs making up the lion's share of time spent. Other collective activities such as library borrowing, exercise and meals were slotted in around these. Exceptions were occasionally made for external activities that were also seen as therapeutically relevant, such as attending courses on fatherhood or online schooling. In addition, there was often one TV unit in the common area rather than in individual cells or rooms (as was the case elsewhere in the prison), in order to minimise the amount of time spent alone in cells. Haney (2010) reflects that in the modern prison, ‘doing time’ does not always equal vast expanses of unfilled time, as was often described as occurring on other closed units. Instead, it often means undergoing a host of tests, programs and assessments under a therapeutic lens. Too much idle time was thus potentially problematic (as it might invite cravings for drugs). This was heightened by a sense of urgency related to prisoners’ time on the DRUs and a need to maximise their stay in order to effect positive change and plan for release, as most were nearing the end of their sentence. The issue of dead time was further problematised at points of the fieldwork where pandemic restrictions and understaffing made it more difficult to carry out group programs, grant temporary releases and uphold appointments. At these times, both prisoners and staff were frustrated that the DRU operated more like a typical closed ward, with reduced therapeutic value and more unfilled time. The considerable weight of obligations on prisoners’ time, with the neoliberal undertones of ‘optimising’ one's time inside to be as therapeutic and productive as possible, ultimately made imprisonment on the DRU feel ‘heavier’, albeit in a positive sense.
Demands on prisoners’ time were also expressed through the enforcement of the drug-free environment through lateral tightness and subversion of the typical ‘convict code’ (Ievins, 2020), as also depicted in the previous sections. Entering the DRU meant breaking ties with peers on other units, with Audun remarking on this transition, saying ‘it was very difficult at first… when you’ve already established bonds to other criminals and kind of become a bit of a gang, and then you have to break out of that … then you’re ostracised socially’. Staff acknowledged that, in practice, it was difficult for prisoners to provide them with information about smuggling or suspicions about others’ relapse risk. However, they made efforts to reframe reporting suspicious behaviour from the traditionally loathed ‘snitching’ (Ugelvik, 2015) to that of taking responsibility for oneself and others, as described by staff member Joseph: We’ve never gotten anyone into trouble for not reporting others using. But we do say, “why in all the world are you sitting by and watching”. They have to think of themselves. […] The guys have to stop lying, that's point number one … we also want to be a kind of buddy system. If you know that your friend, neighbour is going out on leave, and is going to relapse, and he goes out and relapses and dies, are you really a good friend if you didn’t say anything?
This social contract of expectations, demands and obligations was closely tied to the notion that the DRUs were tough environments in which the ‘hard work’ of desistance would be done, as also illustrated by the emphasis on minimising ‘dead time’. This may be a result of the DRUs’ treatment-adjacent position, rather than a consequence of the permeation of punitive or carceral cultures from the rest of the prison, as the external treatment institutions that had close ties to the DRUs were also described as strict and ‘demanding’, with staff member Katherine contending that ‘they [prisoners] can be a bit surprised sometimes, that the regime within treatment can almost be just as strict as that within prison. That it demands even more [of them] to then go over to a treatment institution.’ Kurt, who had served part of a previous sentence in a TCs, confirmed this: It was basically worse than prison being there. After three weeks I found out that wasn’t what I needed; and rang the prison and said can you come and get me … but I remember the social worker [on the DRU] then, said, ‘we’ve worked so hard to get you there, so you’ll have to stick it out a bit longer.’
Concluding remarks
The DRUs were experienced as simultaneously distanced from the rest of the prison system and closer to the outside world (thus potentially shallower), with improved conditions and increased benefits available to prisoners (lighter), yet still painful and at times, punitive in their own right. These units provided a markedly different type of imprisonment, one that was described as being closer to institutional drug treatment in many ways, and less like a typical closed prison unit. The therapeutic context was also experienced demanding and tough, despite providing tangible benefits to prisoners not available elsewhere. The hybrid nature of this particular form of drug treatment in prison thus produced a particularly intense, and tight, carceral environment.
Conceptualisations of effort, work and tightness, or what could be termed ‘therapeutic grip’, run parallel to narratives that recovery processes are and should be difficult: that real change requires some degree of suffering. This is closely tied to the lived experience of undergoing treatment, which has also been described as arduous, painful and in ways reminiscent of penal tightness (Stevens, 2013). As Lundeberg (2017) argues, those that are ‘targeted’ for intervention may feel pressured to take part in demanding regimes in order to access treatment. Those who fall outside of targeted interventions, may feel discriminated against by the wider system, or disparaging towards those who are seen as receiving preferential treatment. This fuels the argument that drug treatment in prison, being a hybrid of both punishment and demanding therapeutic interventions, can be seen as a unique ‘pocket of punitiveness’ (Laursen and Taxhjelm, this issue).
From this perspective, notions of drug treatment providers as caring counterweights to the punitive aspects of imprisonment, are worthy of critique. Treatment ideals may become complicated and problematic, or punitive, in practice. While being on the DRUs provided certain tangible benefits, prisoners’ lives also became more complicated and intense by virtue of being on the DRU. Observable reductions in the overall depth and weight of imprisonment occurred simultaneously as certain factors became heavier and more burdensome. Imprisonment on the DRUs was most notably tighter and more constrictive than on other closed units. Being accepted to these units entailed entering a contract whereby the regulation and discipline of behaviour, social interactions, use of time, habits, personality, thoughts and emotions were subject to potentially quite invasive forms of intervention.
At the same time, providing opportunities for and promoting recovery and desistance in prison, and improving prisoners’ access to treatment, in the ways illustrated here, may still undeniably be better than the alternative, as well as providing tangible and genuine benefits not only for recovery but towards an overall better quality of life for people in prison. These findings reflect that the therapeutic grip and increased tightness of treatment may not always be unwelcome and can even be desired. Being in the grip of ‘soft’ power is desirable for those for those who want support in order to change their behaviour, whereas the absence of grip – feeling unheard, unsupported and aimless as time ticks by – might ultimately be more painful than being entrusted to embark on a demanding, yet fruitful, journey in an environment that feels secure and supportive (Crewe and Ievins, 2021). Treatment that is painful and challenging, is also not the same as treatment which is punitive or harmful. However, the nuances of how these types of therapeutic interventions are experienced and delivered, are worthy of continual critical attention.
Footnotes
Acknowledgements
The author would like to thank special issue editors Frederik R. Taxhjelm and Julie Laursen for their excellent feedback and assistance at various stages during the preparation of this manuscript. In addition, many thanks are owed to Thomas Ugelvik, Sveinung Sandberg, Ben Crewe, and Pernille Nyvoll, as well as the two anonymous reviewers, for their thorough and insightful comments.
Consent to participate
Informed consent (written and verbal) was obtained during data collection.
Declaration of conflicting interests
The author declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article: This work was supported by the Research Council of Norway [grant numbers 301535; 300995].
Ethical approval
This study has been approved by the Norwegian Centre for Research Data (Sikt) on behalf of the Norwegian Data Authority.
