I went to prison in Sweden when I was thirty‑five. On paper it says “aggravated assault, aggravated unlawful threat, and threat against a public official.” In real life it was simpler and uglier: I’d been pushed for a long time, lied about, baited at work, my relationship picked apart. I was depressed, angry, and tired of feeling cornered. One day I snapped—smashed up property with an iron pipe, threatened people, threatened the cops when they arrived. I got tased three times and wrestled to the ground by four officers. I was a few seconds away from being shot. I’m not proud of any of it. I think the sentence I got was fair.
At first, the court gave me six years, which put me in a Class 1 facility—the highest security. Later, on appeal, the time was reduced and I was stepped down to Class 2, and finally to a Class 3 open facility. You can measure the Swedish prison system in doors and fences. Class 1 is all locked doors, high walls, lots of guards with batons, very little free movement. Class 2 looks similar, just thinner walls and fewer guards. Class 3 is the opposite: no perimeter walls, fewer guards—many unarmed—and you can go outside by yourself between 7:00 a.m. and 8:30 p.m.
The Daily Rhythm
Day‑to‑day life settles into a kind of reliable hum. Guards wake you at seven for headcount. Breakfast runs 8 to 9—sandwiches, yogurt, oatmeal, eggs on weekends. Programs and work are 9–12 and 1–4 with lunch in between; dinner is at five. After that, free time until 9:30 p.m., when they lock the block and count heads again. In the low‑security place where I spent most of my time, you could move freely within the cell block and common area twenty‑four hours a day. There were twenty‑four men to a block, and you learn quickly that freedom of movement isn’t the same as freedom—more like a larger fishbowl. Still, the rhythm is predictable. Predictability, for someone whose life had been chaos, felt like oxygen.
“Soft” vs. Oriented
People abroad call Scandinavian prisons “soft.” I’ve visited a Norwegian prison as a civilian and, yes, they’re a bit softer than Sweden. But the point of our system isn’t softness—it’s orientation. You can terrify someone into compliance, or you can tutor them into a different life. Sweden leans hard into the second path. It’s not luxurious. The food is “cheap but alright,” and they’re strict about portions. Some smaller facilities contract with local restaurants, which tastes better; bigger ones cook in‑house. You always get fresh vegetables with meals and usually a piece of fruit each day. If you have money in your internal account from work, you can buy extra food, snacks, snus, cigarettes, stamps—little things that let you feel like you still make choices.
Work, Money, and Losing Ground
Work matters, partly for the routine and partly for the money. You earn 17 SEK an hour—call it a couple of dollars. Payroll came every two weeks: 350 to 700 SEK if you were lucky enough to have steady assignments. I did laundry, cleaning, some carpentry, studied a bit, and got paid for programs—anger management, physical education. There are no extra government benefits while you’re inside. I lost my job, my apartment, and I slid into debt. When I walked out, they handed me about 1,400 SEK in cash that I’d saved. Ironically, the bus doesn’t take cash.
Violence, Groups, and the Realities Inside
Violence exists but not like in American prison documentaries. I never saw inmates fight guards. Inmate‑on‑inmate fights happened, but 99% of it was posturing or quick scuffles that burned out fast. Racist factions weren’t a big feature where I was; the system deliberately separates known gang members across facilities and wings to keep tensions down. Some crimes, like rape and offenses against children, will get you placed in dedicated facilities because the general population would beat you otherwise. That part doesn’t change with geography.
Drugs, porn, gambling—those economies exist no matter how many doors you lock. If you put criminals somewhere, don’t expect everyone to suddenly start following the rules. But the culture wasn’t predatory where I lived. Showers were private—either in your cell or one‑by‑one in shared stalls. The stereotype about rape in the showers doesn’t map well here. Hygiene and cleaning were everyone’s job. You and your cellmate clean your cell once a week, or you make a deal: cigarettes, snacks, or phone cards in exchange for labor. Shared kitchens and common areas are assigned to a few workers, cleaned three times a week. The cleaning supplies are locked up; you ask a guard to open the cupboard. If someone chronically dodged their share—or showered too rarely—the block had “talks” after lockup. Social pressure is the first tool; the threat of a beating is the last.
Mental Health and What I Got Back
Mental health issues are common, but Sweden tends to send people with severe psychiatric conditions to proper psychiatric care instead of prison. The gray area is drug‑induced symptoms, where someone can still end up inside. Personally, those two years probably saved my life. I used the structure to steady my depression. I did therapy, exercised, dropped weight, and built back a version of myself that I could stand to be around. I’m tall—two meters, 6’7”—and built strong, so I was never really tested physically, but in Swedish prison that doesn’t matter much. If you behave, you’re fine.
Elders, Kindness, and the Odd Tenderness of Prison
There were older men on my wings—retired, some with disabilities the system didn’t accommodate well. What the system missed, the inmates picked up: extra fruit slipped onto a tray, an arm to hold onto over slick ground, help getting dressed. In that way, prison felt kinder than some elderly homes on the outside. Would I choose it for my final chapter? No. But there were moments of humanity that I won’t forget.
Coming Back Out
Sweden doesn’t strip your right to vote. You can vote inside. On the outside, the stigma wasn’t as heavy as people might think. If you take responsibility and tell the truth, many will give you a second shot. Finding work is hard for everyone right now—unemployment is high—but a criminal record isn’t the wall you might imagine. Toward the end of my sentence I got temporary release, used it to interview for a job, found an empty apartment, signed the lease. I was lucky, yes, but luck tends to show up when you’re walking toward it.
Recidivism Isn’t a Moral of the Story
I met a lot of returners—my estimate is around sixty percent of the men I met had been inside before. People love to yank a moral out of that, but it’s not that simple. Many of those men were in gangs or battling addiction. Short sentences, the revolving door. If you live a criminal lifestyle on the outside, prison becomes a comma instead of a period. The rehabilitative approach works best for people who can see a different life and have some thread to pull on—family, a trade, a willingness to let go of the toxic gravity of old habits.
What I Regret, What I Don’t
Do I regret the time? I regret the harm. I regret the choices that led me there. Time is complicated. I can’t give it back to the people I hurt or to my past self, and I can’t unring the bell. But inside those two years I found a steadier version of me. I walked out, saw my family, ate pizza, and tried to begin again. Some days, and I’m not ashamed to admit it, I miss the simplicity inside. Decisions were smaller. The world was quieter. On the outside, freedom comes with noise and bills and the endless roulette of choices. But that’s life. I’d rather face the noise with my eyes open.
No Neat Ending
If you want a neat ending, I don’t have one. I’m working construction and other jobs—whatever’s above board and keeps me moving. I rent my own place. I still fight the old moods, and I still keep my appointments. I’m honest about what I did. When people ask, I tell them. I don’t need them to like me. I just need to keep making better decisions than the ones that put me in handcuffs. And most days, I do.