As part of its cultural programming, the Yvelines SPIP organized seven hip-hop dance sessions at the Versailles remand prison for women in February. A workshop led by a member of dance company Compagnie Black Blanc Beur was held on 25 February.

The SPIP (penitentiary integration and probation service) has the job of monitoring people in prison or benefiting from an alternative to imprisonment (probation, conditional discharge). Every year it organizes a cultural program, which generally takes the form of one workshop and one performance a month in prison: singing, dancing, writing, plastic arts and theatre workshops, concerts and shows). What might seem from the outside as a recreational activity is, in reality, an essential step towards social integration, explains Danielle Delamotte, integration and probation advisor at the Versailles women’s remand prison. “These activities allow the women to reflect on themselves and rediscover self-confidence and self-esteem,” she explains. “What the body feels has an impact on the mind: I realize why I am there, I become aware that I have never really been conscious of myself. They give me the opportunity to enjoy leisure pursuits. The activity shows that one is able to acquire new skills.”

The Compagnie Black Blanc Beur had not frequented the Versailles women’s remand prison for several years. In the framework of a two-year partnership with the SPIP Yvelines, it has worked in the Bois d’Arcy remand prison and the Versailles women’s remand prison — “a smaller population that therefore is often ignored”, explains Romain Emelina, of the SPIP Yvelines.

Based in Trappes, this hip-hop dance company was born from a desire to promote social integration of young people through urban dancing in the street. Since creation of the company in 1984, some have become professionals. B3, for Black Blanc Beur – or Black White Brown (for people of Arab immigrant origin) in English – came to Versailles seven times in February. Over a period of 15 days, the participants changed, what with people being liberated or transferred. The maximum number of participants was 10.

On February 25 when we went there, four women were attending the lesson given by dancer François Kaleka, member of the Compagnie Black Blanc Beur. “I often say that dancing means switching off your mental processes. Actually, it’s the opposite, it’s being 100% in the present,” explains the dancer, who is also an osteopath. “I reactivate the gestures that we have all done, like crawling. We’re not talking only of dance. The body is involved in all our everyday gestures. But when we dance, everything changes, our centre, our perception, our breathing. I know very well that not everyone here will do another dance workshop one day. The most important thing for me is to pass on principles.”

It is 2 pm. A series of stretching exercises kicks off the two hours of the workshop: crossed leg movements at an increasing speed, then a little run in a circle around an imaginary centre. Small jumps. “You create your own style by mixing movements,” says the workshop leader. “Every step, I can also do it in the other direction. That way, I can double all the tools.” A choreography takes shape, with the four “students” focusing on the teacher’s steps. As Danielle Delamotte explains: “For some of them, the idea is to get back in touch with their body. And yet, when you propose this kind of activity to them, they feel guilty. It’s the first time that they are brought face to face with their desire: Can I give myself permission to do dance? But it’s a powerful medium: rediscovering yourself contributes to social integration. During their detention, they have flashbacks about their past experience. In the workshop they become aware of everything they have missed out on. Paradoxically, it’s when they are in prison that they experience a feeling of freedom to do with choosing the activity: I am autonomous, what can I do with my life?”

Some continue to come, others drop out. After the class, a debriefing is organized with the workshop leader. Seated in a circle on the ground, each one explains what she feels: “It’s the first time I’ve ever danced”, says one. Another one says: “I learned classical dance. They’re reflexes that come back, like re-learning something you used to know.” Yet another comments: “It makes me want to draw. Over the last week, I’ve started knowing myself.” “Because you draw what you feel”, says one of her colleagues. “Etymologically speaking, emotion is energy in movement,” François Kaleka tells them. “Getting the body to move means avoiding blind spots, dust; you’re bringing light and awareness in. When you have a cyst, the blood doesn’t circulate any more and you remember that it happened after a car accident. You put words to it.” Danielle Delamotte agrees: “Doing things in prison liberates speech. The women are less inhibited when we talk with them. It’s the same for us outside the prison, except that here it’s more powerful – they are six in a 20 square meter cell. Here, the women are suffocating in their emotions, they keep everything inside. You mustn’t forget that offences are a symptom of things not going well in your life. They reflect feelings of powerlessness and shame that trigger the actual performance of the offence. And it’s important to bear that in mind when we’re talking with them.” One inmate then says: “It doesn’t just teach you dance steps, it makes you tired so you can sleep better at night.” And God knows that sleep is a problem in prison…