The APAC Method: Reimagining Prison & Reentry 

A 50-Year Revolution

The prison experience is defined by deprivation. Gresham Sykes identified the “pains of imprisonment” as the loss of freedom, autonomy, intimacy, goods, and personal security. Recent research has deepened this understanding. Sociologist Ben Crewe depicts prison as “an invisible harness on the self” formed by the “depth, weight, and tightness” of constant surveillance, control, and uncertainty. Far from being temporary, these pains leave a permanent mark. They accompany people home, shaping how they move, relate, and think long after release.

For more than five decades, however, Brazil’s revolutionary prison system, APAC, has been defined by what it gives: responsibility, dignity, and trust.

Brazil’s APAC (Association for the Protection and Assistance of the Convicted) prison model was founded in 1972 by a group of Catholic Christians aiming to offer a more humane, rehabilitative alternative to conventional prisons. The first facility opened in São José dos Campos, São Paulo. Since then, it has grown to 69 sites across Brazil and still runs largely on volunteers.

As the number of APAC sites grew, a central hub, FBAC (the Brazilian Fraternity of Assistance to Convicts), was established in the 1980s to safeguard the method and guide its expansion. Yet APAC was not well-known by the Brazilian government until a 2011 human-rights commission visited Itaúna and was amazed by what it saw. Brazil’s Court of Justice then dispatched judges to observe the model and codified funding streams to support it. This marked a shift from purely grassroots to a civic-state collaboration.

In June of this year, I visited two APAC facilities in Minas Gerais with Simonetta d’Italia Wiener, and the experience deeply moved me (my students can attest, I’ve been interested in APAC for years!). I observed a prison culture of respect and responsibility rather than threat and deprivation. It was an invitation to reimagine what prison and reentry can be.

APAC offers us all a framework for rethinking punishment and rehabilitation globally.

Unlike conventional prisons, APAC rests on the belief that people can change. Its approach is guided by three principles: love, trust, and discipline. FBAC staff likened the method to a set of interlocked cogs: all twelve elements^[1] must work in concert. And the data speak for themselves. Roughly 85 percent of men released from Brazil’s “common” prisons return, compared to 13.9 percent of APAC’s recuperandos (those serving prison sentences in an APAC).

The model is dynamic. Valdeci Ferreira, director of CIEMA (the International Center for the Study of the APAC Method), told me that “everything changes, from crime patterns to social norms. The APAC method does not change, but we change our approach to the methodology.” For instance, the network has added drug-treatment and parent-child bonding programs in recent years.

For researchers and practitioners, that openness is a gift. As knowledge grows, APAC adapts, welcoming new ideas, cultures, and partners while holding fast to its core belief in our capacity for transformation.

^[1] The 12 elements of the APAC method include community participation, recuperandos (helping recovering), work, spirituality, legal assistance, health care, human appreciation, family, volunteers and the training course, social reintegration center, merit, and the journey of liberation with Christ.

The Pillars of APAC

Love

Love is not a word we usually hear in discourse around prisons, but it is central to APAC’s methodology. I heard another visitor summarize APAC’s purpose in a sentence: “To love recuperandos, for them to know they are loved.” A quote from APAC’s founder, Dr. Mário Ottoboni, elaborates on this:

Calling them by their name, learning their story, taking an interest in their life, visiting their family, meeting their legitimate needs, allowing them to sit at the table for daily meals and use utensils: these and other measures will help them discover that not everything is lost.

Love is practical, woven into daily life at APAC. It is embodied by the staff, volunteers, programs, and the recuperandos themselves. Volunteers, described as the “soul of APAC,” still run much of each facility. Every site has an unpaid president, so, as one person put it, “people feel loved not because the president has to love them, but because they choose to.” We see love in various initiatives, such as the modest spa or barbershop at each site, which helps recuperandos feel good for family visits. It’s not just self-care but love and dignity in action. The same ethic shapes relationships among recuperandos. The principle “recuperando helping the recuperando” promotes daily acts of mutual care, teaching, and support.

The architecture speaks volumes about love. There are hopeful murals throughout, walls and window bars painted in cool, welcoming colors. Flowers edge the paths, and plants are tucked into nooks and crannies. In one courtyard, there is a playground and a wooden gazebo – more community garden than prison pod. Mother’s Day art still hangs on the walls from a recent family day. Notably, there are fewer bars and concrete walls than in any prison or jail I have visited.

Trust

Trust is the most radical departure from prison norms. In his book, APAC: The Revolution of the Penitentiary System, Valdeci Ferreira recounts Dr. Ottoboni’s observation of the common prison system in Brazil,

You can write in big letters on a banner: ‘Here, no one trusts anyone.’ The prison officer does not trust the prisoner, and the prisoner does not trust the officer; the family members do not trust the officers, and the officers do not trust the management, the prisoners do not trust each other … Now, imagine a home where the husband does not trust the wife… Is this a home? No, this is hell. Therefore, we can categorically say that the prison system is hell, because there, no one trusts anyone.

APAC shows that trust can build community and cultivate change. I learned that a core belief at APAC is that, to foster responsibility, we must first extend trust. Participation is entirely voluntary. Recuperandos “must want it,” the president of the recuperando council in Itaúna emphasized as he guided our tour. Escape would be easy; several perimeter fences are only shoulder-high. When I asked why, he said simply, “They are kept in only by their conscience.” Likewise, there are no armed guards at the entrance, just a recuperando “guarding the trust of APAC,” our guide explained. That post rotates every eight hours among a small group of recuperandos, making trust an ordinary part of the routine.

Key tasks are also entrusted to recuperandos. Self-governance is best represented by the Recuperando Council, whose president, vice-president, treasurer, and other officers oversee daily operations, activities, and infractions. Even the pharmacy is run by a recuperando who stores and administers medication each day because, the council president explained, “s/he must be very trustworthy.” I asked a staff member at FBAC about this; they acknowledged that giving people keys or drugs carries risk, “but love is a risk,” they added.

When one of us described our guide – the president of the council – as the “boss,” he corrected with a smile, “Not boss. Leader.”

Discipline

Discipline at APAC is not punitive but pedagogical. It provides structure and accountability, builds skills, and drives transformation. In his book, Valdeci Ferreira writes, “without discipline, there is no recovery, because it is known that behind every criminal act is the absence of inner discipline, of ‘inner judgment’ – that capacity to self-direct, set limits, control one’s actions and emotions.”

“APAC is not easy,” the council president told us. “In the common [prison] system, there is a life with no rules; here, there is a regimen.” Daily schedules consist of work, education, and therapy, and once a month, a Day of Solidarity keeps recuperandos in their rooms to reflect on the common system. It is a gesture of gratitude and self-discipline. Recuperandos even lock their own rooms.

Discipline is evident in the door security, too. At each entrance, a recuperando controls a double-bolt system: one door must be locked before the other opens, a procedure they take very seriously. That post is earned, not automatic. “APAC doesn’t hand that role to a newcomer,” I am told. The person posted there has “been observed and earned trust.”

APAC’s phased structure reinforces change. Recuperandos begin in a closed regime focused on reflection, then move to a semi-open regime for skill-building and education. At that stage, they may leave the site for work placements. APAC does not aim to replace the common prison system but to provide an alternative, offering a different path for those who choose it. Even labour is framed as therapy. The first three months in the closed regime are unpaid work meant to “forget the common system” and “exercise the mental side.” As Valdeci Ferreira notes, “Work in the closed regime is therapeutic … awakening self-esteem, potential, and creativity.”

For many, the effect is profound, though it may take time. One recuperando, now in APAC for a second time, called the programs “life-changing.” Men arrive “thinking only of themselves,” he said, but soon begin to “accept what they did” and contemplate its impact. A former recuperando now on staff told me, “I wouldn’t be here without it.” Another said, “APAC opened my eyes to a future I didn’t know.”

The Chapel in the Cell

There was a moment when the principles of discipline, trust, and love converged for me. On the tour of the closed regime, I asked whether APAC used solitary confinement. “Yes,” our guide said with a slight smile, leading us toward a heavy door with a tray slot. “There is one person behind this door right now.” I braced myself. But when he opened the door, we stepped into a small chapel. There were religious symbols on the walls, four comfortable seats, and an atmosphere that was peaceful and inviting.

We all laughed, yet the scene was striking. The space (a feature of the original building given by the state) had been reclaimed. Here, solitude is not a punishment but a sanctuary. And recuperandos seeking a quiet, reflective space enter by choice.

Transforming the solitary confinement cell to a space of sanctuary is a metaphor for the APAC method.

A Different Philosophy of Punishment

I believe the APAC model is revolutionary because it is embedded in a different philosophy of punishment. A prison is not a tool for deprivation but an instrument of healing. APAC’s principles are rooted in restorative justice and a commitment to human dignity. As Valdeci Ferreira writes, APAC’s purpose is “to rehabilitate prisoners, protect society, assist victims, and promote Restorative Justice.”

Conventional prisons are retributive, offering fragmented rehabilitation at best. Too often, they perpetuate harm and send individuals back into society poorly equipped to reconnect with family, work, and community. APAC counters with a human-centred approach, urging that to change a person requires other people.

Even the language reflects that shift. Residents are not “inmates” but recuperandos, which translates as “recovering persons.” Recovery means meeting needs, strengthening family ties, and rebuilding community. And APAC carves out space and time for change, holding fast to redemption and forgiveness.

One of my favorite memories was lunchtime in an APAC. A bell rang, and everyone gathered in the cafeteria, the tables set with tablecloths and cutlery. Recuperandos, dressed in their own clothes, stood for a brief prayer. Then we all shared the same food – recuperandos, staff, and visitors. The atmosphere was relaxed, and the food was good.

So, two final questions, what if a prison had no guards? What if its foundation was trust and its method love?

Hannah Chesterton, PhD

Assistant Professor of Criminology

The Catholic University of America