Tough on Crime Policy Followed Me in Exile

Hamed Farmand

Children’s Rights Activist and Founder and President of Children of Imprisoned Parents International

For almost a decade starting in the early 2000s, during the wave of mass arrests of bloggers and journalists in Iran, I wrote under the pseudonym “Prisoner Number Zero.” I also wrote dozens of unpublished pages, stored in a dark green document organizer and hidden in my closet. My writing was rooted in childhood memories—memories of growing up with a mother imprisoned for five years during the dark decade of the 1980s, when Iran saw mass political incarcerations and executions.

Little boy in the dark looks out the cage [AI-generated image]

Through these writings, I witnessed how different generations dealt with the trauma of parental incarceration. I used autobiography as a tool for advocacy, to raise awareness of the challenges children face when their parents are in prison. At the time, I was not yet familiar with prison abolition, nor did I fully grasp the harmful effects of the Iranian regime’s “tough on crime” policies on families. But I held a deep belief—then and now—that community plays a critical role in reducing the harm of incarceration. Communities not only bear the impact, but they also have the power to either reinforce or resist a system that treats imprisonment as the only path to so-called “safety.”

In 2012, after immigrating to the U.S., I began to educate myself more formally, reading academic research and personal accounts, particularly about mass incarceration in the United States. Even though a large part of my work continued to focus on Iran’s legal system and families affected by imprisonment there, I felt a deep connection with the experiences of families I encountered in the U.S.—especially the children.

Reading All Alone in the World by Nell Bernstein was a turning point. I had to keep reminding myself that this book was written years after my own childhood and thousands of miles away from my home. And yet, every scene, every story felt familiar. As I learned more about the impact of parental incarceration on children, I also began to understand how “tough on crime” policies in the U.S.—which mostly target Black communities already facing poverty and systemic racism—mirror similar patterns I had seen in Iran. In both countries, incarceration is closely linked to poverty and socio-economic status.

Volunteering with local organizations in Virginia gave me lessons no book ever could. Whether I was taking on the role of Santa to deliver gifts to children with incarcerated parents—gifts wrapped by community members on behalf of mothers and fathers in prison—or mentoring kids during summer camps, I saw firsthand the power of community care. These experiences helped me move beyond my own childhood trauma, rooted in political imprisonment, and see the larger picture: how incarceration intersects with poverty, racism, homelessness, and social injustice.

This framework eventually led me to embrace prison abolition—not as an abstract theory, but as a lived conviction. I still have more to learn, but what I know from over a decade of advocacy is this: prisons don’t fix anything. They destroy families and rob children of opportunities for healthy development.

I’ve heard stories of mothers arrested for stealing food to feed their babies, held in jail for months, and then losing custody of their children to the foster care system. These mothers weren’t neglectful—they were criminalized for being poor. And whether the mother was a Black woman in the U.S. or a struggling parent in the outskirts of Tehran, the capital of Iran, my heart breaks just the same.

Through my advocacy and work with nonprofit organizations, I’ve also come to see how children are punished for their social class and race. Schools and communities often fail to support them, and instead push them further into cycles of marginalization. While the role of politicians and policymakers is undeniable, my focus is on the power of communities. I believe in a community’s responsibility to create safe spaces for all children—especially those with incarcerated parents—and to challenge the stigma surrounding imprisonment.

An informed and empowered community can also push back against harmful policies like “tough on crime,” which often harm families and destabilize communities rather than making anyone safer.

In recent months, as I watched Canadian election debates and listened closely to Marc Carney’s first speech as prime minister, I was struck by how often I heard the phrase “tough on crime.” My years of activism have taught me that, even when there’s no evidence linking this approach to actual public safety, it remains popular. That’s why, alongside other activists and professionals—whether people with lived experience or scholars—I am committed to raising public awareness.

My dream is that someday, hearing the phrase “tough on crime” will make people feel less safe, not more. Because the truth is, this policy leads to more incarceration—disproportionately targeting the most vulnerable: the poor, the unhoused, and racialized communities. These are people who deserve to live in dignity and have access to public services—not to be punished.

As an activist living in exile, I feel deeply connected to other local movements challenging social injustice: whether around homelessness, poverty, immigration, displacement, or domestic violence. These are all issues that, directly or indirectly, have been criminalized or worsened by “tough on crime” approaches.

Finally, I feel a profound solidarity with Indigenous communities in Canada—who continue to experience systemic discrimination and are overrepresented in the prison population. Their stories, resilience, and demands for justice are integral to the broader movement for change.

My next chapter, here in Canada, is about deepening these connections—working with community organizations and helping to raise awareness. No matter where I live, I carry the belief that justice starts with care, not punishment. And I carry with me all the children—past and present—who continue to wait for the world to take responsibility and see them not as collateral damage, but as human beings worthy of love, dignity, and hope.