Mexico City Journal

IN PRISON, TODDLERS SERVE TIME WITH MOM

MEXICO CITY -- Beyond the high concrete walls and menacing guard
towers of the Santa Martha Acatitla prison, past the barbed wire,
past the iron gates, past the armed guards in black commando garb,
sits a nursery school with brightly painted walls, piles of toys and
a jungle gym.

Fifty-three children under the age of 6 live inside the prison with
their mothers, who are serving sentences for crimes from drug dealing
to kidnapping to homicide. Mothers dressed in prison blue, many with
tattoos, carry babies on their hips around the exercise yard. Others
lead toddlers and kindergartners by the hand, play with them in the
dust or bounce them on their knees on prison benches.

Karina Rendon, a 23-year-old serving time for drug dealing, said her
2-year-old daughter thought of the 144-square-foot cell she shared
with two other mothers and their children as home. "She doesn't know
it is a prison," she said, smiling sadly. "She thinks it's her house."

While a prison may seem an unhealthy place for a child, in the early
1990s the Mexico City government decided it was better for children
born in prison to stay with their mothers until they were 6 rather
than to be turned over to relatives or foster parents. The children
are allowed to leave on weekends and holidays to visit relatives.

A debate continues among Mexican academics over whether spending
one's early years in a jail causes mental problems later in life, but
for the moment the law says babies must stay with their mothers. So
the prison has a school with three teachers.

The warden, Margarita Malo, said the children had a calming effect on
the rest of the inmates. The presence of children also inspires the
mothers to learn skills or, in many cases, to kick drug habits that
landed them in trouble in the first place.

And even though the prison is full of women capable of violence, the
children usually walk safely among them, as if protected by an
invisible shield. It is as though they tap the collective maternal
instinct of the 1,680 women locked up here.

"The minors are highly respected by the population," Ms. Malo said.
"The fact we have children here creates a mind-set of solidarity. I
have never seen aggression on the part of the inmates toward the
children. Everyone acts as if they could be their children, and they
don't want anything to happen to them."

Still, raising a child in prison presents a tough set of problems,
mothers said in recent interviews. Those serving long sentences dread
the day when they must be separated from their child because he or
she has turned 6.

Others who lack financial help from relatives struggle to earn enough
money in prison to care for a child. Several said they waged a
constant struggle to keep their children from getting sick in the
damp, drafty cells. They often have no money for the prescriptions
the prison doctor gives them.

Yet, few want to give up their bright-eyed offspring to relatives on
the outside. They say the children are like a breath of normal life
inside the stuffy, deadening confines of the prison. "It's
beautiful," said Victoria Jaramillo, as she held her 3-month-old
daughter on her lap. "It keeps one busy."

Ms. Jaramillo, who is 40, is serving a 20-year sentence on a
drug-dealing conviction. She maintains that she was only ironing
clothes in a house when the police burst in and discovered a cache of
drugs. Whatever the truth, she faces the certainty that she will have
to give up her daughter, Frida, in six years.

"The only thing that bothers me is I will have to lose her," she
said. Dressed in a pink fleece jumpsuit, the baby looked up at her
mother with dark, innocent eyes.

A mother's crime plays no role in the decision to let her keep a baby
born in jail, the warden said. Cecilia Nava Lopez, 25, has served two
years of a 27 1/2-year sentence after being convicted of causing her
stepchild's death, a charge she denies. She was pregnant with her
fourth child when the death occurred, and she was incarcerated based
on the testimony of the father of her children.

Ms. Nava Lopez said it was hard to keep her spirits up, facing such a
long sentence for a death she said was not her fault. But taking care
of her son, Emmanuel, who is 20 months old, gives her life some
meaning. "He motivates me to keep trying to improve myself," she said.

Ms. Rendon, however, said she sometimes wished she could give her
daughter to relatives to raise. No one gives her money, so she makes
a living selling snacks to visitors. Her child is delicate and gets
sick frequently with chest colds, she said. She said she considered
the prison food unhealthy, so she buys food for the girl from a
grocery store the prison allows to operate inside its walls.

"I think the best thing for my daughter would be for her to be
outside with her grandmother," Ms. Rendon said. "I have to take her
to work with me." She pauses. "But the truth is I need her. She is
something very special."

Cell doors clang open at 7 a.m. and the guards call the roll at 8
a.m. Most of the mothers live together on the bottom floor of
Cellblock H. They take their children to the school at 8:30 a.m. and
pick them up at 2:30 p.m. The children spend the rest of the day in
their mothers' cells or with their mothers in the exercise yards.

The school has barbed wire above a yellow sign reading Cendi, short
for Centro de Desarrollo Infantil, the Center for Child Development.
On a recent afternoon, the children and their mothers gathered for La
Posada, a traditional Mexican Christmas celebration. They sang songs
about Joseph and Mary's search for a place to stay in Bethlehem and
the birth of Jesus in a manger. Then the children broke a star-shaped
pinata and scrambled after the candy. It was hard to believe that
they were surrounded by prison walls.

Elsa Romero Martinez, a psychologist who runs the school, said the
children showed no signs of overly aggressive behavior. There have
been few reports of abuse, though one child, suffering bruises, was
taken away from a cocaine-addicted mother two years ago.

The thorniest problem she and the teachers face is preparing the
children and mothers for separations once the children reach 6. "We
have to teach them to say goodbye to the mothers," she said.

To show them that a wider world exists, the teachers try to take the
children on field trips as often as possible. Their budget is limited
and they rely on charity for the outings. They have managed only
three this year -- to a museum, an amusement park and a children's theater.

Some of the mothers live in a state of limbo, because a third of the
prisoners have yet to be convicted of a crime. Diana Merlos
Espericueta, 24, was arrested in December 2004 on charges of being a
member of a kidnapping ring. She maintains that she dated the gang
leader, the father of her child, but knew nothing of his business dealings.

For three years, she has waited for a judge to decide her case. She
gave birth to her daughter, Jaqueline, soon after being incarcerated
and has watched her grow to become a sprightly toddler, not knowing
what the future holds for them. She faces a long sentence, possibly
70 years, if convicted.

Watching her child play amid plastic balls at the prison's school,
she said she lived in a state of impotent fear. Sometimes, she said,
she contemplates committing suicide if she is forced to spend the
rest of her life in jail and to give up her child. "The confinement
is very hard," she said.