• les enfants dans les prisons américaines


        Je ne vous l'apprend pas, en manière de respect des droit des enfants, les états-unis ne sont pas vraiment le meilleur élève qui soit. En voici, un autre exemple.

        Les état-unis comptent 6 fois plus de mineurs dans leurs prisons que n'importe quel autre pays dévellopé : plus de 60 000. 

        Le photographe Richard Ross a passé cinq ans à photographier et interviever des enfants incarcéré.  De son long voyage à travers trente états américains et 35 centres de détention pour mineurs, il revient avec une réflexion glaçante: « J'ai grandi dans un monde où l'on résolvait les problèmes, pas dans un monde où l'on détruit une population. Pour moi, c'est une honte lorsque je vois ce que ces enfants doivent affronter ».

        Des discussions avec les enfants ressortent les traumatismes qu'ils ont vécus avant d'arriver ici. Ces gosses ont pour la plupart besoin d'être aidé et non écrasé encore un peu plus par le systeme carcéral.

    Pour ceux qui maîtrisent l'anglais, voilà quelques témoignages ( rassurez vous, pour ceux qui n'ont pas un très bon niveau ( c'est mon cas), on comprend l'essentiel).  Pour les autres, en cas de demande, je peux essayer d'en traduire un ou deux, mais je ne garantie pas le résultat.

    The Boy in Cell Number 7



    It’s April now, and I’m wondering how it came down to this, and how I stooped this low, and how I am in here because of these so-called friends.

    We just got back from school, and soon it will be lunchtime. We walk over to G-unit, and I walk straight up the stairs to my room while others stand around wasting time talking to Officer Rob, annoying him.

    Rob is the guard assigned to our unit. He’s younger than the others and kinder too. He sings R&B songs to himself throughout the day and he doesn’t send us to our rooms for little things.

    Our unit is just like the others: There are 10 rooms numbered from 1 to 10 – the four right ones have double bunks.

    I walk to my room upstairs to Number 7 and close the door behind me. I hear the door lock, and I sit on my bed reading my “Spiderman” comic book until the next time I get to come out.

    WA_Seattle30This cell is so small sometimes I think I am living in my bathroom. My bunk is welded to the wall, and I have a thin mattress and two thin, brown blankets. There is toilet paper hanging from my ceiling, lots of gang writing carved into the walls. All I can see are white bricks and my purple steel door.

    It’s a very cold cell.

    I have been here for well over three months and still don’t know when I’m getting out because they keep moving my court date.

    I am not a bad person. I am only 14 years old and even though I am in juvenile detention, I still don’t disrespect my staff. I like to be honest and follow rules even though I’m looking at a harsh sentence. I get so lonely sometimes I start to talk to myself. I can’t have a roommate because I am so small and scrawny, but I am used to this now.

    When the door pops, I feel relieved that it’s time for lunch. Once again we have the same warm tuna sandwich with American cheese. I am so used to this food now and I’m always looking forward to making trades for food since I barely get full. I hang out with older kids since I am the youngest and people use to take advantage of me by stealing my food.

    These three other kids take good care of me since I’ve known them for so long and they don’t let people take my food.

    The oldest is Ferris. He is 17 and has slicked hair and light skin. He is also very tall, almost six feet. The second is Nako. He is very short, pudgy and has dark skin and a Mohawk to go with his Presley’s, sideburns that go down to his chin. The final one is Ortiz. He is 5-foot-6, has a goatee and is the live one of the group. He’s cracking jokes from morning to night.

    WA_Seattle31As I walk down the stairs from my cell to the day room where there are four tables with four benches around each, I think about how every day is exactly the same and how I am so used to this.

    Then Officer Rob calls my name as I’m walking down to lunch.

    “You got court, Cuban. Go get a blue top and go to Post One.”

    I walk over to the laundry area and I stare at the clothes we all wear every day: white shirts, white socks, blue pants and blue tops. I look for a small sized blue top with the V-neck collar and put it on.

    As I am walking to Post One, I am wondering what this is about. I am feeling nervous and anxious to find out where I am headed.

    An officer at Post One tells me to stand against the wall until they come to get me. I walk over to the wall, shaking, wondering what is going to happen to me.


     “She kept beating me up. . .”


    I think I’m from Laverne. I live in an apartment. I don’t know where, just an apartment. I live with my mom, she goes to Citrus College, my brother who’s six and sister who’s eight. I don’t do drugs. I do a lot of sports. I like to read a lot. I read everything—realistic, fiction, every kind. My friends and me, we all go to the library a lot. We read and take naps. In two weeks I go back to court. Then I either go to my mom or foster care. I went to foster care the first time at age ten. There were two other foster kids there. After 11 months, I went back to court and they told me to go back to my mom. They kept on taking me from my mom because she kept on beating me up and the neighbors would report the beatings. But now my mom has started taking parenting classes at Citrus.


    My friends and me, we all go to the library a lot. We read and take naps.


    My social worker came and took me to a childcare center. I spent the whole day there. Then I went to the social worker’s office and I stayed with her until midnight while they called and tried to find a foster home for me. Finally V, the social worker, took me to a foster home in Simi Valley. My brother and sister went to one foster care home and I went to another. I’d like to go live with my dad, he lives somewhere in Florida. My dad left my mom. They had an argument when I was 8 and dad said he needed his own space. That was four years ago. I saw him once in foster care and then twice since I’ve been here. The last time was only yesterday. He works for a company in Florida. They don’t give him any breaks and he works a lot of over shifts and weekends.


    -K.F., age 12


    ” . . . because of my age, I’m here.”

    I’m in seventh grade but I don’t do good.

    There are too many kids and I can’t pay attention.


    This is my first time here and my last time. I’ve been here 4 months. Why so long? **shrug** I don’t understand the whole thing, like the court process. I’ve never been in this situation. It was 2 p.m. in the afternoon when the police called my mom and told her they had to bring me to the police station in Baldwin Park. They took mug shots and fingerprinted me. I’m not in any gang. I live with my two sisters, two brothers, and a stepdad. I’m in seventh grade but I don’t do good. There are too many kids and I can’t pay attention. My mom doesn’t work. First they took me to another facility for a day and a night after the police station. Then because of my age, I’m here.


    -N.W., age 12



    “In my country people play like that.”


    This is my first time I detention. I’ve been here 5 months because my attorney said I need to see a special doctor. I’m from Norwalk. I live with my mom, who’s a babysitter, stepdad, who’s a mechanic, and three step brothers. I don’t know my real dad. I’m in eighth grade. No there’s no gang affiliation. I’m here because of an incident. I came to the US. from Nicaragua. I did something that I didn’t know it was illegal. I didn’t know the rules and laws. In my country people play like that. I think the attorney told me to see a doctor to see if I know the difference between good and bad.


    CA_Central_12_15_13-9I did something that I didn’t know it was illegal.

    My mom is fighting for her papers. I came to the US. on a U5 visa. It allows somebody in the family to visit a family member when he’s been hurt. I visited my brother because he was raped by my uncle. He was five. I think my uncle was in jail, but he’s out now. My mom doesn’t like him. I was living with my aunt and uncle here and I came with my grandma by airplane. They tried to send me back to Nicaragua, but they may put me with a program or placement here. I didn’t know what I did was wrong.


    -I.N., Age 13

    Pour ce que ça intéresse, d'autres témoignages sont disponibles ici






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