Inside a PNG prison

I went to prison in Goroka (Papua New Guinea). Six words I never thought I’d write, let alone experience. But more about that later.

When I first told family and friends of my plans to go to PNG, they initially reacted with worry and concern.

“It’s a dangerous country—you shouldn’t go there!” “You might catch malaria or some other sort of disease.” “Aren’t there other places you’d rather visit?”

Having previously travelled to other countries that might be considered high-risk (Israel, Ethiopia and India, to name a few), I was genuinely taken aback by the adverse opinions I received. It was like the opposite of a tourism ad—everyone I spoke to was trying to dissuade me from going!

I consider myself an adventurous traveller. But this time, I couldn’t shake the niggling feeling that I should just cancel my plans. Well-meaning people sent me articles about violent assaults and tribal unrest. My usual pre-travel excitement was overcome by an uncomfortable sense of disquiet. When I had to spend my birthday updating my typhoid shot and getting a prescription for malaria pills, it felt like the last straw.

“You must be looking forward to PNG,” a friend said. It was the first positive comment anyone had made. 

“I’m not sure,” I confessed. “Part of me is looking forward to it. Part of me is just scared. I don’t know what to expect.”

“But you shouldn’t expect anything before your visit,” my friend pointed out. “You need to experience PNG for yourself. You can’t just rely on other people’s opinions.”

It was the best advice my friend could have given me. I tried to let go of my fears. And as soon as I decided to keep an open mind, each unexpected event became an opportunity instead of an obstacle.

Departure day finally arrived. After flying from Sydney to Brisbane and Brisbane to Port Moresby, I was looking forward to the final flight of the day. But after boarding the plane to Goroka, an announcement was made, asking passengers to get off the plane.

“We are sorry for the inconvenience,” the staff said apologetically. “We should fly in an hour.” That one-hour wait turned into an overnight stay in Port Moresby. 

During the shuttle bus ride to the hotel, I sat next to a young woman and her baby girl. I commented on how cute her baby was (always a good conversation starter with a parent!) and we began to talk. Her name was Lavi and she lived in Goroka. I had no idea how important this conversation with a stranger on the bus would turn out to be.

Fast forward to the next day and our rescheduled flight. As the passengers milled around the baggage claim, I saw Lavi again. It turned out that her husband Jeremiah was part of the group that was scheduled to pick me up. I was staying approximately an hour out of Goroka but Jeremiah and Lavi promised they would come and visit. They also insisted that I let them know if I needed anything.

You might be wondering what I was doing in PNG. I was running a community program at a site called Kafetugu, which was really a big open-air field. Hundreds of people were coming each night to listen to special songs, health talks and messages about Jesus. 

For the first couple of nights, conscious of the warnings from family and friends, I stayed close to the team of volunteers looking after me. But by the third day, I realised I would never truly experience PNG while being escorted between the podium and the car. I wanted to learn what PNG was all about. To do that, I needed to be among the people.

I started wandering around the field and the surrounding hills and meeting the people who were camping there. Slowly, I began learning phrases in the local languages Tok Pisin, Kafe and Bena. The women fed me delicious food—smoky sweet potatoes, bamboo-chargrilled fish, fresh pawpaw and the sweetest pineapple I’ve ever tasted. Within the first few days, my fears were forgotten. The warmth, kindness and genuine hospitality of the people won me over. And the more I learned about Papua New Guinea and its culture, the more I grew to love it.

When Jeremiah and Lavi asked again what they could bring, I knew what the people needed: medicine. Things that we take for granted were impossible to access in the rural area where the program was being held. True to their word, Jeremiah and Lavi came with what I’d asked for. I found myself dosing sickly babies with cough syrup, doling out paracetamol . . . and giving away my malaria pills. I’d taken them faithfully for the first few days. But now I believed the locals needed the medication more.

I had heard there was a site like mine at the women’s prison in Goroka. The anxious pre-PNG me would have steered clear of prisoners and prisons. The new me desperately wanted to see what it was like. When I told Jeremiah and Lavi about my wish, Jeremiah instantly said that he could organise a prison visit for me. 

Like most things in PNG, the prison camp was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. It was a simple brick building that could easily have been mistaken for a regular house—if it weren’t for the tall, barbed wire fence and the bars on the windows. The women were clad in various versions of their “uniform”—a blue dress with red hems. When my friend Julie and I first walked in, they seemed solemn and unresponsive. Several of them had crossed their arms defensively. But as we began talking to them, you could gradually see the tension dissipate.

Julie shared part of her backstory including how her children had been taken away for some time and how difficult that separation had been. Tears began to well in the women’s eyes. Many of them had children on the outside that they wouldn’t see for a long time. Others had babies born inside the prison that had never been on the other side of that barbed wire fence.

“Please pray for us,” one woman begged. “Please pray for our children.”

We didn’t know what crimes the women had committed or how long they were in prison for. But as Christians, we were able to share our belief that there was a way for them to experience true freedom and forgiveness—the freedom and forgiveness that comes from a relationship with Jesus. Much like my pre-PNG experience, some women were hesitant and unsure. Others showed willingness to learn more about the Bible or at least try reading it. And one woman decided that the Jesus we spoke about—someone who offered love, grace and healing—was what she wanted in her life right then and there. The once-stoic ladies were now openly weeping as we stood in a circle, arms around each other’s shoulders, and said a prayer for this woman and her decision.

Although I’ve never been arrested, I know what it feels like to be a prisoner to my emotions. To accept I’ve made mistakes, to acknowledge that I’ve hurt people I love and to feel remorse over my actions. I could choose to stay in a place of regret and self-condemnation. But I also believe in a God that loves me unconditionally. He’s forgiven my past and has bright plans for my future. He doesn’t want me to stay in that place of shame. 

As I continue getting to know Jesus better—reading the Bible, praying and spending time with other believers—He gently leads me on a journey of growth. I know I’m not perfect—far from it—but it’s faith in Jesus that keeps me aiming to be a more loving, kind and joyful person than I was yesterday (Galatians 5:22-25).