"it's me...it's me...it's me...oh, Lord- standing in the need of prayer"

     I approached the secured compound surrounded by huge concrete walls lined with razor wire. After passing security checks I was allowed to drive into the compound. I got out of my car and prayed for safety as I approached the second check-point leading into the entrance of the prison. It was there that I was met by a lawyer, whose number had been given to me by the German Ambassador’s wife, this lawyer had been volunteering in the prison for over 15 years, and he had agreed to introduce me to the prison captain, take me on a tour of the prison, and help me suggest to the prison that a hospital ship is coming to town and the volunteers on that ship are interested in visiting the prisoners.
     After brief introductions to the prison guards and captain, I followed the lawyer to where he and local Catholic priests hold weekly mass for some of the men in prison. I was ushered into a structure in the center of the prison where multiple benches, filled with men, were sitting under a metal roof, canopy of sorts. There had to be at least 120 men seated for the service. I was led to the front of the room and given a real wooden chair to sit in, “a chair of honor” as is very common in Africa whenever a foreigner or white person attends a service or meeting. Everyone else in the room had benches to sit on; my colleague and I were the only ones with a “real” chair. I sat down and tried not to be a distraction because the service had already started, but it was almost impossible not to be a distraction when I was one of the only females in the room and my skin is so white it can blind someone.
     I sat and quietly listened to echoes of deep baritone voices singing beautiful worship songs in tribal languages. After the signing finished, scriptures were read and the priest preached a sermon on Moses and the slavery and captivity of the Israelites. The prisoners listened attentively and there was a divine sense of peacefulness under that metal structure. I was impressed with the advancement of my French language skills as I could basically tell what was being said without translation. The priest talked for awhile and my mind drifted in and out of the room something I find still happens easily when I don’t actively and intently try to focus on the French being spoken.
     I looked around the room and wondered what had brought the men to the prison, what they were feeling, what they were thinking, how long had they been there, if they had been to court, and what they were serving sentences for. I felt no fear, I only felt for them. Some of the men had probably committed heinous crimes… My heart, mind, and feelings were divided as I felt some of the men probably deserved to “rot” in prison because justice and I are close friends….but there is grace and I am in need of it no less than others… but at the same time my God is just too and stands for justice… But, I couldn’t help but hurt for the prisoners. 1200 men, women, and minors, living in a space built for 400 and the reality in Africa and not Africa alone is many people are often imprisoned and they have committed not offense nor been given the chance to defend themselves or have legal representation to plead their case. They are jailed and forgotten.
     The next portion of the service included communion and more singing. I stood with the incarcerated and prayed for justice…for peace…and for God to make sense of all I was seeing and experiencing. I was pulled out of my prayers and ushered back into reality when I recognized some familiar words being sung….at first I thought the words were being sung in French and I was just understanding every word that was being said, but no, the prisoners were actually singing in English. I heard the group united in chorus singing, “It’s me… it’s me…it’s me…oh, Lord…standing in the need of prayer…it’s me… it’s me…it’s me… oh, Lord, standing in the need of prayer…”I sang my heart out with the prisoners.
     The closing statements of the service were being said and I was asked if I wanted to address the prisoners. With a frightened look on my face, I told my translator, “no, no way,” I didn’t want to speak…What could I possibly say to so many who lived in cramped quarters, who only receive one small portion of cooked rice and a tiny breakfast, which is a recent improvement, the small bit of rice used to be the only meal? What could I say to those who were of the 144 minors living in a room maybe 25 meters x 25 meters sharing maybe 15 beds and two toilets? My heart was heavy, what could I say? I decided in that moment my presence would have to speak for me…my mere human words could not be formed into anything that would have mattered at that moment. I felt ashamed that I had nothing to say…but I couldn’t change that, I was speechless…
     After the service, my translator was approached by a few people; they reached for his hand, longing for interaction with someone “from the outside.” He couldn’t believe it when he turned in response to tap after tap on his shoulders and was greeted by at least 5 people he knew, but hadn’t seen for a long time. He hadn’t known they were in prison. My translator scribbled down phone numbers that they gave him and I believe he was taking pleas to not be forgotten and to greet family members. I looked all those in the eyes that approached my translator and I shook hands with them saying in my poor French accent, “courage, courage…” What can one say???
     I toured cramped room after cramped room, only the minors and the women in the prison shared beds, the rest of the approximated 900 imprisoned men slept on the floor; some on thin mattresses, some only on sheets, living with maybe 75 people crammed in a 10 meter x 15 meter sized room. Some of the doors were locked on such cells and I saw only hands reaching out the bars that were at the very top of the door, reaching for something, grasping for anything….hope deterred…
     The guards in the different wings of the ward all stared at me. I greeted them and smiled… They just stared…The lawyer I was with introduced me to a few detainees and I could tell he was discussing legal matters with them and updating them briefly on the status of their situation. I shook hands with a gentleman, a prisoner, dressed in a leisure suit.
     After we left his presence and moved to a different part of the prison, my translator looked at me with the look of a “deer caught in headlights” and said, “that man… the one you just shook hands with…I recognize him from the news… he led the attempted assassination on our president not long ago…”
    When I reached yet another part of the prison compound I saw another white women chatting with a detainee. A badge on her shirt read “Geneva Convention.” The Geneva Convention and its articles is the cornerstone of international humanitarian law, protecting those in war zones or caught in the nature of war even if it has not officially been declared. Ensuring…

“Persons taking no active part in hostilities, including military persons who have ceased to be active as a result of sickness, injury, or detention, should be treated humanely and that the following acts are prohibited:
* violence to life and person, in particular murder of all kinds, mutilation, cruel treatment and torture;
* taking of hostages;
* outrages upon personal dignity, in particular humiliating and degrading treatment; and
* the passing of sentences and the carrying out of executions without previous judgment pronounced by a regularly constituted court, affording all the judicial guarantees which are recognized as indispensable by civilized peoples.”

Although Guinea has never declared official war, this country has been laden with military coups after coups, rebellion, unrest, and is also a home to many refugees from its neighboring countries of Sierra Leone and Liberia. I recognized Liberian English and Krio, the languages of Liberia and Sierra Leone being spoken amongst some of the prisoners. No doubt they felt in limbo being imprisoned a country that is not their own. I prayed…for what exactly….I don’t even know…but I prayed…
     I finished the tour of the entire prison. I thanked the prison captain for letting me visit and told him Mercy Ships would be in contact with him after showing him pictures of what Mercy Ships does, he pleaded with me that the prisoners not be forgotten by the Ship. I received an open invitation for Mercy Ships to hold any program they desired for the prisoners.  I walked past the first guards I had meet and stepped back into the “free” world. I looked behind me to ensure my translator had come with me and noticed he continued to have the look of a “deer caught in headlights look.” He only said, “It is a different world in there.”
     As we drove out of the prison, my translator said nothing more, but I am almost positive I saw tears coming down his face. I don’t know what he was thinking or experiencing…it is very likely many of those he had encountered that he knew had committed no offense…We neared the house I am living in and I asked him if he was okay…he just asked me not to say anything and said he was very sorry, but couldn’t work anymore for the day…I assured him our work was done for the day and that he could tell me anything he wanted to or didn’t have to saying anything at all…he quietly left with the “deer in headlights look” still plastered on his face.
     Once back inside my current home, I pulled aside my good friend and teammate and we took time to pray…we sat in silence before God for awhile…we prayed for my translator…. I cried… and we prayed for all the prisoners…we prayed for justice in the world…I cried…and we prayed that if the day ever comes when we are jailed or face the threat of jail versus denying faith that we will have the strength to stand…I cried…and we prayed…I cried….and we prayed…and the echoes of the prisoners song rang through my head…. “It’s me…it’s me… it’s me…oh, Lord….standing in the need of prayer….it’s me…it’s me… it’s me…oh, Lord….standing in the need of prayer…”