Our journey took us into the heart of Colombia where I was taking a small team of women to a high-security prison in Ibague to teach Amish quilt-making to the women inmates. Many of these women were incarcerated because of their link to a drug-lord or because they were considered an accomplice to their husband's criminal charges and were swept along to prison, as well. The majority of them were innocent and were spending many long months awaiting a trial that would probably not turn out favorably for them in the end. Most of these women and girls had children at home to support and were looking for ways to provide for them while behind bars.
In our carefully packed luggage, we carried 200 sewing kits, each complete with all the materials needed to make crib quilts for babies. It was our plan to teach the women how to make these quilts which they could then sell to provide money for their children living outside the prison. One of the women on my team owned an Amish quilt shop in Ohio and had provided the supplies for our venture, in addition to offering her expert skills in demonstrating the art of quilting.
Three hours into our scenic ride, we had left the crisp elevation of Bogota and were arriving in the tropical rain forest climate of Ibague. Pedestrians cluttered the road leading into the town, children rang alongside the bus holding up trinkets to sell, and beggars stood with arms outstretched, expecting the clink of a coin from sympathetic Americans. Weaving through the disorganized streets we shared with rickshaws, cab drivers, and BMW's, we arrived at the prison, sweaty and disheveled from our journey, and slightly apprehensive as we viewed the machine-gun toting guards stationed at the perimeter of the gate. After a rapid interchange with our driver, and a curious look at the American passengers, the guards waved us tentatively through the gate, following us with their guns.
After what seemed like hours later, and the temporary confiscation of our passports, we had passed through a triple set of security checkpoints where we were frisked as our luggage containing the 200 sewing kits was thoroughly scanned and inspected. We were then escorted by a team of 10 military guards, their no-nonsense guns poised, as they huddled us in the center of their posse while we passed through corridor after corridor of incarcerated drug lords, guerrilla fighters, murderers, and thiefs. I tried to still the clamoring of my heart as these men leared at us, their cat calls and whistles barely restrained by the warning looks from our guards.
Finally, we passed through the men's section of the prison and arrived at the area where the women were kept. They were expecting us, and 300 of them had come out into the open area of the courtyard, their faces expectant and hopeful as they gathered around our team with big smiles. The matron had selected a few women to take us on a tour of their facility, showing us where they slept and cooked their meals. The squalid conditions were as clean as possible and here and there were pots of flowers growing on a sill or a colorful blanket folded on a simple chair. They showed us pictures of their children and told us stories of how they came to be in the prison. We set up our tables and supplies, and soon were engaged in a lively session of teaching, demonstrating, and quilting as we worked alongside these beautiful women who were so eager to learn something new.
We spent three days with those women, building relationships and establishing trust, as we worked together to create something beautiful. We left them with a new skill and fresh hope in their hearts, while we came away with the realization that even in the most hopeless of environments, creativity can flourish if nurtured.
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