In the latest entry in our incarcerated writers series, incarcerated journalist Kwaneta Harris interviews Uhuru Rowe, a formerly incarcerated writer and New Afrikan activist, about life on the other side after more than three decades behind bars. Harris has previously written for Spectre and has published widely. You can find much of her writing here. For background on Rowe, a one-time political prisoner, check out this support site that remains up even though he has since been released.
Kwaneta Harris: You were condemned to die behind bars when you were just a teenager—a sentence that strips away not just freedom, but the very concept of a future. Now you’re free. Can you take me through that first moment when you truly understood you were getting out? What did that realization feel like in your body, your mind, your spirit? And how do you reconcile the person you were at sentencing with who you’ve become now?
Uhuru Rowe: For me, the moment of realization that I was getting out wasn’t when I signed my release papers, it was when I put on the clothes that had been brought to the prison by my then-partner and I was being escorted out of sallyport and I looked down at my hands and I was not wearing handcuffs and legcuffs. For almost thirty-one years, transportation off prison grounds meant having metal placed on and against my skin. Standing there waiting for the gate to open, seeing bare skin on my wrist, and hearing that gate open—not to let me in as an imprisoned person but to let me out as a free person—that’s when the realization and shock set in. For my body, it felt like an immense weight had lifted off me. My chest felt hollow, in a good way, so that it felt like my lungs finally had enough room and space to expand all the way. My mind was unusually quiet. For over three decades, my brain was a radar, constantly scanning for threats and responding to noise. The radar went away and the only thought I had sitting in the car with my then-partner was “I am free…I am finally free. I can relax now. It is over.” As far as reconciliation, at 18, I was a child masquerading as a man, driven by ego, fear, pain, and a lack of vision. The child made a choice that changed the trajectory of lives forever. I don’t look away from him, and I don’t offer him easy excuses. The man I am now is built on the ruins of that child. I spent thirty-one years on the inside studying, evolving, and peeling back the layers of why I did what I did. I reconcile it through accountability. I carry my past like a debt I can never fully repay but that I must try anyway.
The First month: Beyond the Technology Shock
KH: Everyone expects released prisoners to be overwhelmed by smartphones and social media, but what has genuinely shaken you that people don’t talk about? What small, everyday aspect of free society—maybe something others take completely for granted—has left you feeling most disoriented or amazed? Was there a moment in this first month that made you realize just how much the world had changed while you were inside?
UR: I became disoriented and amazed when I walked into the grocery store for the first time. You have to understand, for thirty-one years my world was grey, beige, barbed wire, and stainless steel. My shopping was done by filling in commissary items I wanted to purchase on a bubble sheet, waiting a week, and then going to a commissary window to pick them up. The first thing that hit me when I went into a grocery store was the variety of things to choose from. In prison, we only have a very limited number of options to choose from and in some cases, we only had one option. So seeing so many different varieties of cereal, cookies, cakes, fruits and vegetables. My senses were overwhelmed and I just froze up multiple times because I was unable to choose among the many options now available to me on the outside.
The Prison Self That Won’t Let Go
KH: We both know that prison rewires you for survival in ways that don’t serve you outside. What habits, reflexes, or ways of thinking from your time inside are you still carrying? Do you find yourself doing things that made perfect sense in prison but seem strange or excessive now? How are you working through these ingrained behaviors, and which ones do you think might never fully leave you?
UR: The thing that most people don’t understand is that your experience on the inside don’t stay behind at the prison gates. It burrows into your nervous system. For instance, whenever I sit down in a restaurant or somewhere else in public, it is difficult for me to sit with my back to the door or to a whole bunch of other people. I have a desire to find a seat or stand in a place where I can see every entrance and every person moving around. If someone walks up behind me unexpectedly or too quickly, my heartbeat spikes and the fight or flight response kicks in. That is because in prison, the space behind you, that blind spot, was the most dangerous. I try to work through this by trying not to respond when someone walks behind me. I decided to sit with my back to the door a few weeks ago when I went to visit with my family for the holiday. I still turned and looked every time the door opened but allowing myself to sit there with my back to the door was progress for me.
Standing there waiting for the gate to open, seeing bare skin on my wrist, and hearing that gate open—not to let me in as an imprisoned person but to let me out as a free person—that's when the realization and shock set in.
Survivor’s Guilt: The Weight of Those Left Behind
KH: You’ve emerged from a system that still holds countless others who shared your circumstances, your struggles, your dreams of freedom. Are you grappling with guilt about being out while your friends remain inside? How do you honor the relationships and commitments you made behind those walls while simultaneously trying to build a new life? What do you say to yourself when that guilt threatens to pull you under?
UR: Every meal and every sunset feels unearned. It’s a constant feeling of being a “deserter” from a war that my friends are still fighting on the inside. I try to answer every letter when I can. Just listening to them reminds them they aren’t forgotten, and it keeps me grounded in where I came from. I handle the small tasks they can’t—sending a text or email to a friend or relative. Researching a legal case. Or sending money when I can. These small acts of service are how I keep my word. I can also honor them by not coming back. Every day I stay free is a testament to their humanity and mine. If I fail, I reinforce the stereotype that we are all lost causes. I remind myself that I can’t help free anyone if I fail during transition. I have to be stable first to be a resource and supporter later.
When Everything Is Too Much
KH: Freedom after decades inside can be paradoxically suffocating—too many choices, too many stimuli, too many possibilities. What specific situations or environments have you found overwhelming since your release? Are there moments when you’ve had to remove yourself from a situation because it was simply too much to process? How do you manage sensory or emotional overload when it hits?
UR: One thing is seeing everyone staring at their phones makes me feel like I’ve woken up in a sci-fi movie. It’s too much for a brain that is used to grey concrete. One situation I had to leave was when I was laying in bed beside my then-partner the first night I was home. Having been deprived of human connection and physical intimacy all those years made me feel nervous and strange laying next to her and I had to get up and go into the other room just to process what I was thinking and feeling. That situation had a profound impact on our relationship. Now, when I find myself in situations that are overwhelming, I just pause, take deep breaths, and count backwards to ten imagining with each passing number I am feeling less overwhelmed.
The Invisible Walls: Barriers Nobody Warned You About
KH: Beyond the practical challenges like finding employment or housing, what unexpected obstacles have you encountered? What assumptions did you have about life after release that proved completely wrong? Are there freedoms you imagined that turned out to be more complicated or elusive than you expected?
UR: One assumption is that I thought I could learn the new world quickly. I didn’t realize that thirty-one years of tech advancement is a mountain, not a hurdle. I assumed the moment I stepped out, the depression would instantly vanish. Instead, it followed me. You don’t leave the trauma at the gate; you carry it with you after you are released. I imagined getting a job was a matter of hard work. I didn’t realize that a felony conviction and a thirty-one-year gap on a resume is an automatic rejection from most automated hiring systems. I am free to work, but the system isn’t free to hire me. I wanted to be alone, but true privacy is lonely. In prison, you are never alone. Out here, I have a room with a door that locks, but the silence is so heavy it feels like it’s crushing my ribs.
You don't leave the trauma at the gate; you carry it with you after you are released.
Practical Wisdom: Guidance for those coming home
KH: Knowing what you know now after this first month, what concrete advice would you offer to someone who’s about to be released after serving decades? What should they prepare for emotionally, practically, and psychologically? What do you wish someone had told you before you walked out? And what resources or support systems have proven most valuable to you?
UR: Identify one person who will answer the phone every time you call for the first forty-eight hours you’re out. You will get lost, confused, or overwhelmed, and you need a voice that knows your history. Carry cash until you fully learn how to use a debit or credit card. Practically, asks questions about how smartphones work before you get out. Understand that the world no longer uses paper applications and that yours will have to be planned or managed via a smartphone. Emotionally, lower your expectations about your family. They have aged and changed. Prepare to feel like a guest or stranger around your own family for a while. Psychologically, practice patience with yourself. You are going to make mistakes—you’ll go in the wrong direction or struggle with a touch-screen. Don’t let the prison voice in your head tell you that you don’t belong out here.
Dreams Deferred, Dreams Transformed.
KH: For years, maybe decades, you couldn’t allow yourself to dream beyond those walls—or if you did, those dreams were abstract, almost fictional. Now that you’re out, what are you dreaming about? Have your aspirations changed from what you imagined during your incarceration, or have they remained constant? What does hope look like for you now, and how does it feel different from the hope you held onto inside? Redefining Identity: Who Is Uhuru Rowe Now?
UR: I am dreaming about helping to build a movement capable of freeing all criminalized survivors and abolishing the carceral state that has targeted and destroyed many lives and communities. This was my aspiration while I was still in prison and it is my aspiration now. In fact, it is even more of an aspiration now because I can speak directly with survivors held captive by this system and learn how they have been impacted by it. In prison, hope was an abstract thing. It felt like a survival tool—a shield used to get through the night without committing suicide. Now, hope is concrete and fragile. It’s the hope that I can earn enough money for rent, that my former partner will forgive me for falling short of her expectations, or that I can make it through the grocery store without a panic attack. It’s no longer about getting out; it’s about fitting into society. Hope in prison was painless because it was just a dream. Hope out here has fear and anxiety attached to it—it’s the realization that my life is finally back in my own hands, which is both beautiful and terrifying.
KH: You spent your formative years and much of your adult life in prison. That institution shaped you in profound ways, even as you resisted its worst influences. Now, how are you defining yourself outside of that identity as an incarcerated person? Who are you discovering yourself to be when you’re not defined by your conviction, your number, your location in the system?
UR: I am learning that my ID number is not my name. For thirty-one years, I was a category; now, I am a neighbor, a customer, and a son, brother, uncle, and community organizer. I am discovering that I can be a person who contributes rather than just someone who is controlled and managed like I was in prison. I am discovering myself to be a lifelong learner. Whether it’s figuring out a new app or understanding a new social norm, I’ve traded the identity of an “inmate” or “offender” for the identity of a community member. In prison I thought I was tough because I had to be in order to survive. Out here, I’m finding that I actually love silence, nature, and riding my scooter to feel the wind flow over my body. My prison persona was an armor; underneath, I’m much softer than I realized. I spent decades on the inside watching for danger. Now, I’m discovering I can use that same focus to watch for beauty—the way the seasons change or how the ducks play in the lake.
A Message to Kwaneta and Others Still Inside
KH: As someone who has crossed from one side to the other, what do you want your friends who are still incarcerated to know—both about what awaits them if they get out, and about how to maintain their humanity and hope while they’re still inside? What truth do you want to share that only someone who has lived both realities can articulate?
UR: I want them to know that the world moves at a digital speed you aren’t prepared for. It is indifferent to your struggle; it won’t slow down for you to catch up. You have to be ready to be a student for a long time. They will face “invisible bars”: stigma, background checks, and a lack of credit. I was able to maintain my humanity behind the walls by reading everything I could get my hands on and I encourage them to do the same. Don’t let your vocabulary or your worldview shrink to the size of the prison yard. Keep your “internal world” larger than your cell. In an environment designed to make you cold, stay warm. Help a person who can’t read. Share what you have. Every time you act with compassion, you are rebelling against the system that wants to harden you. Stay tethered to the outside. Write letters. Find a way to get on online or social media and connect with people. I was able to build a huge support system by doing that. Remind yourself that you belong to a family and a community, not just in a prison cell.