Reopening Alcatraz as a working prison isn’t just symbolic—it’s a chilling recommitment to the failed, dehumanizing logic of mass incarceration.
The proposal to reopen Alcatraz Island as an active prison, recently suggested by President Donald Trump, signals more than a symbolic return to a dark chapter in American carceral history. It represents a continued investment in punishment over restoration, in isolation over innovation. Inhumanity over humanity.
Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary, once infamous for its harsh conditions and inescapable isolation, was originally built in 1934 not merely to confine but to break the human spirit. Located on a rocky island in the middle of San Francisco Bay, it stands as a concrete manifestation of punitive excess.
As a survivor of the juvenile justice system and founder of the RECH Foundation, I visited Alcatraz as a tourist and it struck a deeply personal chord. Walking through those cold, confining corridors resurrected buried memories of confinement as a young girl—when my potential was punished instead of nurtured.
The silence, the steel, the calculated isolation felt all too familiar. It reminded me why I’ve spent my life fighting to ensure no child is ever treated as disposable, and why RECH was founded—to create space for restoration instead of retribution. The experience affirmed what I’ve always known: Places like Alcatraz don’t just imprison bodies, they haunt spirits.
The tour revealed a chilling atmosphere where the architecture itself seemed designed to induce psychological torment. The wind howled through the corridors, the echo of the waves against the stone walls carried an oppressive weight, and every element of the space communicated deliberate isolation and suffering. Long after leaving the island, the emotional residue of that experience lingered, a visceral reminder of the trauma such spaces can inflict.
The prison closed in 1963, but the ethos behind it never truly disappeared. In many ways, Alcatraz never stopped existing—it simply multiplied across the nation.
Whether on the land or surrounded by water, a prison designed to silence rather than restore is nothing short of a torture chamber.
The prison industrial complex in the United States has ensured that structures like Alcatraz remain very much alive. With the U.S. ranking fifth in the world for incarceration rates of 541 people per 100,000 residents, what Alcatraz once represented is now dispersed across countless facilities, both state-run and private, urban and rural.
Each institution, despite technological advancement or geographical difference, perpetuates the same cycles of isolation, dehumanization and systemic neglect.
The idea of reopening Alcatraz for what Trump termed as punishment for the country’s “most ruthless and violent” criminals, particularly in today’s political and economic climate, should not be viewed in isolation. It calls for a broader reckoning with why such carceral relics were created in the first place and why their logic persists.
The myth of deterrence through brutality, the overreliance on incarceration as a solution to social problems, and the refusal to invest in prevention rather than punishment—these are the ideologies that gave rise to Alcatraz, and they continue to shape the justice system today.
Alcatraz was designed to be the ultimate deterrent, embodying the harshest aspects of the U.S. penal system as a symbol of punitive excess. Its reopening would symbolize a return to punitive measures over rehabilitative approaches.
Yet it was historically ineffective. The prison’s closure in 1963 was due to high operational costs and its failure to rehabilitate inmates, suggesting that its model was unsustainable and ineffective.
The push to reopen Alcatraz is seen as a symbolic, political move that appeals to a desire for “tough on crime” policies, rather than a practical solution to criminal justice issues.
Some may draw parallels between incarceration on an island and the spiritual exile of the Apostle John on the Isle of Patmos, as described in the Bible. Yet unlike a prophetic vision or divine isolation, these modern-day “isles” are places of state-sanctioned suffering. Whether on the land or surrounded by water, a prison designed to silence rather than restore is nothing short of a torture chamber.
The isolation at Alcatraz is similar to the goal of Guantanamo Bay detention camp in Cuba, a U.S. military prison, where the U.S. has sent its most feared “enemy combatants,” particularly since 9/11 in 2001. New Pentagon reports show that since January of this year, Trump has spent at least $21 million deporting migrants to Guantanamo.
Alcatraz poses a unique problem in that its very location renders transparency and accountability even more difficult. Unlike today’s more modern facilities, where watchdog organizations and legal advocates can at least attempt oversight, the isolation of an island prison creates an inherent barrier to visibility, amplifying the potential for abuse.
“Ultimately, we recognize that a democratic system of government that operates according to the rule of law will be judged by how that system treats the victims of crime and those who perpetuate such offenses,” as stated in The U.S. Criminal Justice System: A Reference Handbook. That includes our choices about what kind of carceral spaces we sanction, replicate, or revive. Alcatraz is not a monument to justice—it is a mirror of everything that still needs dismantling.
Rather than reinvesting in outdated, punitive models, a firsthand visit to Alcatraz in 2022 with members of the justice advocacy group, All of Us or None, reinforced what many have long understood. Alcatraz should never have been built, let alone considered for reopening.
Reopening Alcatraz would not represent progress or innovation—it would mark a dangerous regression to a punitive past dressed up as bold policy. Rather than rebuilding relics of oppression, the nation must invest in strategies that prioritize prevention, accountability and healing.
True public safety does not come from cages on islands but from communities equipped with the resources to uplift, support, and transform. The path forward lies not in monuments to mass incarceration, but in bold, restorative alternatives that affirm humanity and dignity for all.
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