My will to live

• DOI: https://doi.org/10.1108/IJPH-06-2022-118
• Published date: 02 June 2022
• Date: 02 June 2022
• Pages: 227-230
• Subject Matter: Health & social care,Criminology & forensic psychology,Prisoner health,Sociology,Sociology of crime & law,Public policy & environmental management,Policing,Criminal justice
• Author: Fernando Murillo

Viewpoint

My will to live

Fernando Murillo

Living and dying in prison during COVID-19

The leadership of the prison where I was incarcerated walked into our dormitory. At the

time, the dorm housed 150 people living in bunk beds. The bottom bunks were primarily

assigned to people who used wheelchairs and walkers. Between the dorm’s elderly

population and their medical equipment that filled all the walkways, our housing unit

resembled an overcrowded assistedliving facility or nursing home more than a prison.

It was a rare sight to see all the top administrators standing in a housing unit all at once.

They were wearing masks. We knew something was wrong. The little breathing room we

typically had was now filled with an air of anxiety and anticipation. Everyone in the dorm fell

silent.

The head of medical services spoke into the housing unit’s microphone, “We need to work

on social distancing.”

The guy who sleeps so close to me that he can practically hug me when we are both in our

bunks looks at me and laughs. People are sitting on their bunks holding hands to

demonstrate that this statement is a joke. It seemed like the administration was there to let

us know that Coronavirus is real, it is here and thatwe might have a person in a hazmat suit

carry us to a freezer after we die of it. I was afraid. My neighbors were afraid. They were

rolling, walking and limping their wayto the podium to ask questions –149 people talking all

at once.

One member of the prison’s custody leadership team walked down the aisle toward me. He

could see I was standing back fromthe others, observing the scene. For years, we had met

in a different capacity, as I was the Executive Chairman of the Inmate Advisory Council. He

is a man of compassion who treats people with respect. He allows residents the space to

speak to him. He listens to people. Impulsively, I said, “We need to move all these older

guys out of the dorm to single cells to protect them. So many of them have compromised

immune systems.” “Or how about you just let us go home?” The sorrow and worry I saw on

his face made it clear to me that he wanted to do just that. He was familiar with the

dynamics of his prison. He knew many of the people who would be in potential harm’s way

from COVID-19 infection had done their time, had been rehabilitated and deserved to be

released. But he was restricted by policy and politics. He looked at me quietly and said

nothing.

The prison administrators left and correctional staff entered the dorm, bringing with them

boxes of trash bags and empty carts. No one was communicating with us, but we were so

institutionalized we all knew what we were supposed to do and what this action meant. It

meant “get your things organized and packed, people are moving.” We just did not know

who was moving, or to where. I welcomed this activity, hoping to move to a single cell to be

as safe as possible. I was just year short of my 25th year in prison. My board of prison

parole hearing was coming up soon. I did notwant to die before then.

Fernando Murillo is based

at University of California

San Francisco,

San Francisco, California,

USA.

DOI 10.1108/IJPH-06-2022-118 VOL. 18 NO. 2 2022, pp. 227-230, ©Emerald Publishing Limited, ISSN 1744-9200 jINTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF PRISONER HEALTH jPAGE 227