by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR

The first time Mohamed Lotfi, 45, heard one of his homeless acquaintances invite him to visit him in Bordeaux, he was perplexed. "I thought he meant the city of Bordeaux in France," he says. Lotfi, who had been doing guerrilla radio reports for various community radio stations, never suspected that the prison - a north-end provincial institution for criminals doing sentences of under two years - would be where he'd find his vocation.

On December 10, Lotfi's French-language show, Souverains anonymes, celebrates 15 years of producing and organizing a weekly radio show by inmates from behind bars. Lotfi's recently been praising provincial ministers for reversing a decision to axe the show that has welcomed such top stars from the vedette heavens as Éric Lapointe, Jo Bocan and Celine Dion to participate and perform. Twenty inmates work on the program that airs on Radio Centreville, CKUT, CISM and the site www.souverains.qc.ca as well as in cells at Bordeaux Beach, if that's where you're locked up.

Lotfi, who also works at Radio-Canada, says inmates respond because, "I'm not a prison guard or a bureaucrat, nor an inmate. There's no authority relationship. They can't expect anything from me and I can't offer them a thing. They're in a situation where they're forced to be themselves and so they talk about their vulnerabilities and fears."

Revenge as rehabilitation

The show aims to "break prejudices and open minds," he says. He believes it's also a tool to plot revenge against society. "What is crime?" asks Lotfi. "It's a vengeance operation. They commit crimes against society for putting them in a foster home, or against their mother for neglecting them. I tell them to get their revenge by becoming a good citizen."

Since 1989 Lotfi has seen the prison population get younger and blacker, with most of the inmates involved in the show being poor kids sent in for drug-related offences. They often perform with unexpected proficiency. "I find the blacks are particularly extraordinary artists. If I had the money I'd have found some Michael Jacksons in there," he says. "But I'm not in Bordeaux to train rappers or singers."

Lotfi aims to rehabilitate. "These guys pass their lives in deceit, cheating guards, the system, everybody," he says. "So when they trust you, you can tell them things that they don't like to hear. For example, they say, ‘When I get out I'll open a music studio.' They think I'm going to encourage them. But I advise against it because they're thinking about money. What I propose to them is a project called ‘You.' That's the most important project. Do it before embarking on risky projects that you'll put all your hopes into and then get disappointed and fall back into crime because you don't know show business. I counsel them to work as dishwashers, in construction or minimum wage jobs, to change their way of thinking. They don't like to hear it but they know I'm right and many do it. When I talk about an inmate who succeeded, I talk about the guy who scrubs walls for a living."

Role models and reality checks

Lotfi cites the rap duo Sans Pression, frequent visitors to the show, as good examples of smart living. "The inmates assume these guys are millionaires, but they work minimum wage in a factory," he says. "They made a major effort to avoid lives of crime and the inmates love them."

Lofti, who says he's "never been scared" inside, even serves up tongue-lashings. "One 18-year-old guy recently said to the group that he'd be a criminal his whole life. So I talked to him alone. ‘Don't they teach you manners? You insulted me in front of everybody else. I don't want to hear you say that to anybody, not even yourself. How can you claim you love your daughter when those are the words of somebody who doesn't love his family or himself?' He was completely blown away. He was tortured. I torture them when I talk like that. What do you expect prison is meant for? What do you think you came here for? I use the show to make them think."

Lotfi's friendship with the inmates sometimes extends after the doors get unlocked, except those who stay crooked. "I tell them if they continue in crime, they don't even have the right to speak to me in the street," he says.