Informed by the geographers Michel Lussault and Mathis Stock, inhabiting is here understood both as a way of concretely inhabiting a prison cell and more generally as a relation to the world. Rather than seeing space as a fixed container that people are simply “in,” this perspective highlights how people actively cope with space: they cross distances, negotiate boundaries, arrange things, and shape places through everyday actions, language, and imagination.

Seen in this way, architectural space plays an active role in shaping the experience of imprisonment. The following section focuses on two elements—the window and the prison yard—where these spatial effects become especially tangible and have a clear impact on lived experience.

Space is therefore not just a backdrop to action. It both enables and constrains what people do, while everyday practices also produce and transform spatial arrangements, meanings, distances, and limits.

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The Window

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The window is one of the most important elements of a prison cell. Beyond providing daylight, ventilation, and temperature regulation, it connects the people inside to the world beyond the walls—through light, sound, weather, and the sight of movement. For those in cells on upper floors, where views can extend beyond the prison perimeter, this connection can be profound: [When I don’t feel well] I always try to look at the mountains. Then I feel very small. And sometimes, when I have too many problems, I try to focus on someplace distant. So, my eyes have to focus on something very far away. Then I [feel like I] am not stuck here. I have to think about [what’s happening] over there. I grew up and lived in the mountains for almost 20 years of my life. (Oliver) I have access to nature, so I canfollow the seasons, I can see nature, and for me personally, this is something important, and that’s why I think it’s a good thing that you at least have aview into the distance. (Damjan).

Another element of existential importance are windows that inmates can fully open themselves, which is the case in the prison in Cazis Tignez. The exposure to and sensation of fresh air is especially important, since it alleviates the feeling of being trapped.

The importance of the cell’s architecture becomes especially clear when comparing environments built in accordance with modern, humane standards with a pre-trialdetention facility, where “everything was made of concrete, there was no daylight, hardly any fresh air, the internal ventilation system spread thecigarette smoke of the others. I got skin rashes all over my body, eczema.” (Memory of Prisoner).

The window runs lengthwise just below the ceiling. You have to tilt your head back to see the light coming in. ST explains that cellsused to be built this way so that incarcerated individuals would have to look up to God and pray for their sins to be forgiven. Field Report PD2

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By forcing the person inside to gaze upward, the design physically inscribes a posture of submission. Light becomes less a connection to the outside world and more a controlled, almost symbolic element—directed not outward, but upward.

In contrast, the cells in PD1—a newly built prison—offer a markedly different environment:

The cell is constructed of exposed concrete and feels surprisingly bright. It contains a bed, a chair, and a white, built-in table positioned beneath the large window, which looks out onto the exercise yard. Unexpectedly spacious, the cell also includes its own shower and toilet. Field Report PD3

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The Exercise Yard

The exercise yard is the only outdoor space available within the prison. It serves as a site of social interaction and physical activity, and offers one of the few opportunities tofeel something beyond the inside of a cell. Access to fresh air is not merely recreational—it provides a temporary sense of relief that nothing else in the prison environment can replicate.

Insome facilities the yard is relatively generous:

We are met by the director and led through two more gates into an exercise yard, atthe center of which stands a decorated Christmas tree. The extensive area includes several detached buildings that resemble a village. Green spaces, a sports field, and cultivated land are enclosed by fences and barbed wire, beyond which fields and mountains stretch out into the background. (Field Report CF)

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This facility is surrounded by fences rather than solid walls, allowing views into the surrounding landscape. The openness creates an impression of relative freedom— while the permanent presence of double fences makes the boundary between inside and outside impossible to ignore. The yard embodies a spatial paradox: it is the only place that allows access to the outdoors, yet it simultaneously marks the most visible point of separation from it.

In other facilities, strict rules limit even this. At CF Cazis Tignez, once inmates enter the yard theymust remain there—they cannot move back indoors. In bad weather, they areforced to either endure the elements or crowd into a limited number of sheltered areas. Fixed concrete benches, cold and exposed to the weather, discourage people from sitting. Weather operates as a spatial factor, interacting with material conditions and rigid temporal regimes to shape boththe perception and usability of the exercise yard.

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Pre-trial detention facilities offer significantly less outdoor space. In PD1, both exercise yards are enclosed within the building and made entirely of concrete. Inmates are continuously visible to anyone on the three surrounding floors, which overlook the space through glass windows. There is no greenery, and a glass roof limits access to fresh air.

We godown to the ground floor into the inner yard. The center is covered, withfitness equipment underneath. As I take a closer look at the space, more andmore inmates arrive. They walk together in a circle around the yard,counter-clockwise, talking to each other. There must be around 60 men. Mexplains that you can infer a lot from the dynamics in the yard—who gets alongwith whom, who walks alone, who has problems, and who causes them. Field Report, PD2

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The second yard at PD2 is on the roof, reserved for those classified as particularly difficult:

The fourth floor has its own yard, located on the roof. It is half covered and halfopen, with barbed wire stretched above it. There is a table tennis table, twoplastic armchairs, a punching bag, and several pieces of exercise equipment. Field Report, PD2

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Enclosed by walls on all sides, there is no view beyond the prison—reinforcing the principle that those in pre-trial detention should have no contact with the outside world.

PD3 similarly features two inner exercise yards. One includes a table tennis table, some greenery, and space for exercise, with a large colorful mural painted on one wall. The second is smaller and more functional, housing the laundry room and a secured door leading to two isolation cells.

Architecture shapes how imprisonment is experienced—but this relationship is not one-sided. Incarcerated individuals also actively shape the spaces they inhabit, and find ways of “doing freedom” that question and reshape the status imposed on them. The way a person arranges their cell can be read as an expression of how they are coping with—or not accepting—their situation.

The cell is an inherently contradictory space. It is the only place where a degree of privacy is possible—where a person can temporarily withdraw from the pressures of prison life, unobserved. At the same time, it is a highly controlled environment that does not belong to them.

In Switzerland, a standard cell measures around 12 m²—in PD2, just 8m². There are no strictly defined national regulations governing the materialconditions of cells; they are required only to approximate average living standards in terms of lighting, ventilation, sanitary facilities, and size. In practice, what is and isn't permitted varies between institutions. In some correctional facilities, the rules look like this: Prisoners may hang pictures, but only on pinboards—not on walls or doors. Pictures considered shocking, defamatory, political, or religious are prohibited, as are symbols considered provocative. Erotic images are permitted, but not pornography. Additional furniture such as rugs or a reading lamp may be purchased. Furniture that is not fixed in place may be rearranged, but must remain upright and away from the toilet and wash basin.

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Plants from the prison garden are allowed, but not flowers. Stuffed animals up to 25 cm areacceptable. The use of a towel as a tablecloth is prohibited. Personal items can be removed at any time without notice.

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Cells are regularly inspected by prison officers, who hold authority over what counts as tidy and orderly. Even within this tightly regulated space, people find ways to make the cell their own.

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Reversing the Reversals: Arranging the Cell into a Home

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Tight restrictions do not prevent people from transforming their cell into something that resembles a home. Some refer to it as their “room,” “studio,” or even a “one-bedroom apartment”—living there rather than merely occupying the space. Humans have a fundamental need to anchor their identity in places and objects. According to Yi-Fu Tuan, home is not simply a physical setting but an emotional and intimate space, deeply tied to familiarity. Through routine activities, unfamiliar environments can gradually become familiar, fostering a sense of belonging.

By adding a rug, a plant, or personal photographs, people actively reshape the atmosphere of a space, an act of “freedom creation.” Familiar smells or music evoke memories of people and places outside. Shared routines—eating together, watching films, small daily rituals—build a fragile sense of normality. Many incarcerated individuals describe their cell as their favoriteplace in the prison, or even as a space that genuinely feels like home.

This is not passive acceptance. It is a deliberate act of humanizing an environment built to strip identity away—a way of asserting that one is still a person, not just an inmate. Perceiving imprisonment as a livable, everyday condition allows a person to mentally reclaim a small space of freedom within an otherwise total loss of it.

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Never Wanting the Cell to be a Home

For others, making the cell feel like home would mean accepting the situation—a line they refuse to cross. They describe it as “a place to be, but not to live.” They leave it bare and impersonal, keeping their identity deliberately separate from the space. The absence of personal objects becomes its own form of protection—and, paradoxically, a way of maintaining privacy.

This distancing comes at a cost. Without a sense of place in the present, it may become difficult to give meaning to daily life. Many rarely speak about their lives before prison, often because those connections have been lost. Visions of the future become increasingly abstract—more like dreams than plans. And yet for many, this refusal to fully adapt remains an act of resistance. The hope for release, and the refusal to accept confinement as permanent, becomes a force that sustains them.

Even those who resist making the cell their home can find themselves developing an unexpected sense of attachment to it—a feeling of territory, even ownership: I always think: they have been here again. I realize that theyhave searched the cell and think: they have been here again. Wednesday andFriday I clean the cell, the floor and everything, and then I can seefootprints on the floor. That's how I notice that they have been in mycell. (Jonathan)

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The prison cell reveals the manifold expressions of the inmate’s way of dealing with imprisonment, “such as focusing on the present, accepting imprisonment and creating a ‘home’ inprison, or, in contrast, maintaining focus on the future, hope for release andcontinually expressing distance from the prison and all the spaces that it encompasses.”