I am the UK’s longest-serving transgender prisoner. This is what I’ve learned ‘I’ve lost count of the things that happened to me inside,’ says Sarah Jane Baker. ‘You can see my scars’

Sarah Jane Baker is 50 years old, and was released 10 weeks ago after serving 30 years in prison. She was serving a life sentence for the attempted murder of another prisoner after being imprisoned for kidnapping and torturing her stepmother’s brother. She is an artist and violinist, as well as an author. She has written a book named Transgender Behind Prison Walls.

I was born in Brixton, London. I lived in a Georgian terrace town house, we had a really good house in Norwood. It was worth nothing then, but it would be worth a fortune now.

When I was a child, my father lost a business, and after that, the abuse started. He tortured everyone around him, including my mum, and later on, my step-mums. In my family, there’s a lot of abuse, and that abuse also happened when I was in care. This was back in the day when Jimmy Saville used to do his rounds, and women would get felt up on the Tube and people would just laugh. It wasn’t taken very seriously.

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From a young age, I was in and out of a care home. I’m one of 14 kids. I remember going to a children’s home, where staff told us the reason we were in the home was because we were scum and nobody wants us. You end up looking for love wherever you can find it, and by the time I was a teenager, it was a case of finding it, even if you’re getting paid for it.

I always felt like I was a woman trapped in the wrong body. But everything about being queer in the 80s made it hard to come out. AIDS was the only reason gay people were spoken about. People went queer bashing on a Saturday night like it was a sport. I worked as a rent boy when I was on the run from care, but I didn’t take any action on my gender identity.

‘I was in a male prison for the entirety of my sentence’

I got my first seven-year sentence in 1988 for beating up my stepmother’s brother, and the rest of the time was added on when I was already inside. I was one of many working class people whose default was to go to prison, rather than hire a good solicitor. I ended up in Feltham Young Offenders’ Institute, the first of 29 prisons I entered.

The prison system is geared up to divide. It’s controlling and terrifying, and ends up encouraging more division. They said getting visits from friends and family is a privilege. They entitled us to half an hour a month, and anything extra is a reward. If you’re treated badly, and want to protest, they would take away your visits. Your family would pressure you to conform, no matter how bad it is, how painful it is. Families tell you to look after yourself, and not to look out for anyone else, and that attitude encourages more division.

I was in a male prison for the entirety of my sentence, and that’s a dangerous place to be as a trans woman. I’ve lost count of the things that happened to me inside. You can see my scars. I’ve been cut with razorblades, I was stripped, pinned down. I had boiling hot water and sugar poured all over me, I got stabbed.

In Wakefield, I was raped. In Feltham I was gang raped. The group stuck a pool cue in me. Every time something happened, I tried to get released. It was the 13th parole board that released me. The staff wouldn’t take responsibility for my safety. They said: “Well, what did you think was going to happen?”

The Ministry of Justice said it was going to create a transgender wing, but it ended up being a prison segregation and punishment bloc. But when calls were made to move a trans sex offender, there was such a backlash, the handful of us already in the complex were robbed of the chance to move.

‘There was so much blood, I nearly died’

My struggles with my gender really came to a head when I was inside. Although I was allowed access to make-up and hair products, I wasn’t allowed oestrogen. In order to access it under the terms of the Gender Recognition Act, I needed to prove I had lived two years as a woman. But for me, serving a life sentence, that was impossible. I decided enough was enough and resorted to drastic measures in December 2017, and I cut my testicles off when I was in my prison cell.

There was so much blood, I nearly died. But it meant the clinic had to give me oestrogen. I couldn’t cope any more. Without testosterone you end up with the same conditions as a woman would, risk of breast cancer, osteoporosis, so it had to be balanced out. I’ll be on oestrogen for the rest of my life.

I did make some personal developments during my time. A third of prison is illiterate, a third has mental health issues, and a third has addiction issues. I couldn’t read or write before I ended up inside. I spent some time developing my skills, read a degree in Economics through the Open University, and took some extra modules in addiction and drugs counselling. It’s then that I started to learn that serving a sentence as long as mine wasn’t about rehabilitation.

One of my ways of keeping occupied was when I started making art in prison in about 1996. When I started, I gave them away as gifts. I couldn’t get access to paint, and I couldn’t get access to pencils, and that’s because I had an extensive issue with self-harming. I saw somebody cross stitch, and they said they were getting released soon and would sell it to me. So I bought it for £50. I had to get someone to sneak a needle in for me. It’s supposed to be naive, uncomplicated, accessible. Since then, I’ve sold copies of my posters to people on the outside, and when I can, to help people on the inside. I have some meetings scheduled and exhibitions coming up, and it looks like I will be sharing my work in a gallery very soon.

‘Thirty years in prison does something to your spirit’

Transgender prisoners aren’t just one group. We’re a multitude of people who have committed a multitude of different offences. When I’m on my feet, I want to start a campaigning group called Transgender Prisoner Alliance. I have to either represent everyone, or no one.

But by representing anyone, I am obligated to represent anyone who is transgender. The problem is we’re not all in for shoplifting. Some of them are some of the worst child sex offenders in the world. They’ve committed some horrendous crimes. I demand the right to judge anyone I want privately, but I don’t think it’s for me to espouse my views publicly. I don’t know who is guilty, who is innocent, who pleaded guilty to get an innocent charge, who has killed someone or not. It’s between the judge, the victims and God.

I’ve been free for two months now, but it’s been incredibly stressful. I’m stuck in a hostel and I struggle to get money on my Oyster card. I can’t get a passport in my female name because I can’t get a gender recognition certificate, because I need to have lived as transgender for two years outside of prison to get one. Without that ID, I can’t get a bank account, I can’t even get a Monzo account (online-only bank), because they need to see a copy of something to let me through.

Twice, I’ve asked to go back to jail. It’s just too much for me. But I’m not trying to paint a picture that I’m wallowing or lost in self pity. I have some friends who are helping me become de-institutionalised. They’re showing me new food, and helping me travel to engage with other communities. I can’t wait until I can access a bank account to find some patrons to help me carry out the work that I love.

I have a network of really kind people around me, but I feel alone. Unfortunately, 30 years in prison does something to your spirit. It is dangerous, corrosive… it takes away part of your soul. That’s what it’s for. It’s to break your mind to pieces. You don’t get a life sentence to rehabilitate you, you get it to punish you. It’s the harshest sentence the British judicial system can offer.