sign on the door
reads Temple Beth
Zohar — 57 Person
Capacity, and all
hat can be heard is the
onstant rattling of the
ue-painted radiator.
Inside, a handful of
en wearing kipot and
allit silently pray. Rabbi
lan Ponn of Jackson's
emple Beth Israel leads
he men in the Shabbat
rvice. The Torah is not
ead today; there are not
nough congregants to
orm a minyan.
The men read from
ates of Prayer, sitting
art from one another
n the six rows of wood-
n benches. An electric
ternal light shines over
the bimah and a black-
oard is covered with
Hebrew writing. The
en loudly sing "Lecha
Dodi."
Out the window, in the
distance, are metal
fences and coils of
barbed wire.
Each Saturday, Rabbi
Ponn conducts services
r Jackson State
rison's Jewish inmates.
Some are converts, some
born Jews, but they all
share one thing — a
strong devotion to their
religion. Two inmates
assist Rabbi Ponn in con-
version classes, one in
Hebrew, one in religion.
About 15 Jewish prison-
ers attend services on a
regular basis.
"These men have a lot
of time to reflect on their
lives," Rabbi Ponn said.
"Perhaps some are
attracted to conversion
for the rigidity of study
or perhaps some men are
given the option of choos-
ing religion for the first
time in their lives. We
sift through the requests
and make sure the
potential convert is seri-
ous."
From 12:30 p.m. to
about 4 p.m., these pris-
oners choose prayer and
talk with the local rabbi
and each other rather
than shooting basketball
or watching television.
They gather in Rabbi
Ponn's small study
inside the prison. They
sit on chairs, the desk or
lean against the bookcas-
es crammed with well-
thumbed Jewish publica-
-
tions, sharing coffee and
conversation.
George Hall has been
spending his Saturdays
here for some time. He
had Jewish friends and
would come to services
as a social outlet. During
the High Holidays in
1977 he converted to
Judaism.
"You might say I grad-
uated into the religious
aspect of being here,"
Mr. Hall said.
"Actually, I'd never
been happy with Chris-
tianity. The ministers
seemed phony. They
talked about being saved
but you knew they didn't
trust you because you
were an inmate," Mr.
Hall said. "It seemed
more open here."
During the week, Mr.
Hall empties the trash
and feeds the prison
cats. He spends his free
time reading and writ-
ing. He has received his
bachelor's degree and
refers to himself as a
"self-taught paralegal."
Mr. Hall has been han-
dling his own case since
1979. He has lived in the
prison system for 18
years.
"Why get my degree? I
can't admit to myself
that I'll never get out of
here. That's what keeps
me going, the hope of
being a contributing
member of society again
— that, my Judaism and
a rabbi who is very spe-
cial," Mr. Hall said.
Realistically, Mr. Hall
will not see freedom.
He's serving a life sen-
tence.
"A lot of people strug-
gle to go to school and
study in this environ-
ment. Most quit," Mr.
Hall said. "I've heard
guards say we shouldn't
get a free education. But
I think education is the
single best weapon
against returning here."
Professors from
Jackson Community
College and Spring Arbor
College teach classes at
the facility.
Bill Lovett also has
taken advantage of the
courses offered. He
earned a B.A. in psychol-
ogy — to try to under-
stand himself, he said.
He wears a small, gold
Star of David earring. He
spends hours reading
Jewish literature and
wishes for more dona-
tions to the library — to
update contemporary
Jewish authors, as well
as the classics.
Rabbi Ponn said his
congregation at Temple
Beth Israel has been
financially supportive of
a fund to supply inmates
with prayer books and
kosher foods on the holi-
days. However, Jackson
is home to a small num-
ber of Jews — limiting
donations.
Like Mr. Hall, Mr.
Lovett is serving a life
sentence. Following two
years of service atten-
dance and one year of
formal study, he convert-
ed to Judaism last June
and proudly offers his
Hebrew name, Ben Ami
Avraham.
"For lifers like myself,
there is no focus or direc-
tion. You have to use the
available programs to
enhance your life," Mr.
Lovett said.
"Before converting I
didn't have inner peace. I
had no refuge. Before my
conversion I probably
was more or less an
agnostic. But Judaism
offered me a concept of
one God — giving peace,
contentment and inner
strength to help combat
the environment," he
said. "I feel better about
myself as I now have a
place to direct my ques-
tions."
As a Jew in prison, Mr.
Lovett is a minority. And
like many Jews around
the world, free and incar-
cerated, he experiences
some degree of anti-
Semitism.
"Anti-Semitism touch-
es all aspects of your
life," Mr. Lovett said.
"When I feel it from
other inmates, I try to
ignore it. I just try to
take the negative vibes
and turn them inward to
strengthen myself and
my determination."
Marty Laker has been
in and out of the prison
system most of his adult
life. He sees anti-
Semitism as more of a
personal conflict among
inmates than an overrid-
ing sentiment among the
majority.
"It's (anti-Semitism)
reflected the same in
here as out there. Except
when we experience it,
we don't have a way to
escape," Mr. Laker said.
Mr. Laker grew up in
Detroit and attended the
Downtown Synagogue.
He had held various jobs
— doing maintenance in
a cemetery and working
in legal services. As a
teen-ager in juvenile
The
congregants
of Temple
Beth Zohar
believe
God is
everywhere -
even behind
bars.
M
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