c. 2008 Religion News Service

SALEM, Ore. _ Pepe Rivas uses his thick fingers to work a plastic crochet hook through some yarn as he sits in a folding chair at the end of a drafty concrete room.

Like the two dozen men sitting around him, Rivas, 38, didn’t pick up a crochet hook until a few years ago. But his rough hands now move expertly, knotting and tying as he transforms a sagging ball of yarn into an airy scarf.

Other crocheters sport scars and tattoos. One can bench press 425 pounds. They’re making scarves, caps, afghan blankets _ all for charities that help the homeless and children.

“This is just a small part of not being a jerk my whole life,” said Rivas, who is serving a life sentence for killing an ice cream store manager in 1987. “It’s a good feeling that I had to learn to enjoy.”

The men belong to an exclusive crochet club: They are inmates at the Oregon State Correctional Institution. They meet for three hours a week in a prison recreation room.

The crochet hooks get locked up when class is over.

Co-founded by Rivas in 2005, the inmate crochet club was tough to get off the ground. Cons who lift weights and play basketball weren’t eager to make themselves the target of teasing _ or worse.

But the program has surged in popularity.

Crochet club members are mostly killers and sex offenders, long-term inmates with plenty of time on their hands and a lot to atone for. It’s also a way to relax in an environment heavy on rules, mind-numbing routine and the occasional threat of violence.

Experts say the program could contribute to good behavior behind bars.

Some victim advocates, however, question whether these men deserve any credit.

“Lot’s of people donate a lot more,” said Mike Dugan, the district attorney in Deschutes County. And people who do charity work in the community aren’t “doing it because they’re stuck in an 8-by-8 cell and that’s all they’ve got to do.”

The inmates say they are not looking for applause.

“I’ve taken from society,” said Jeff Holloway, 38, who’s serving a life sentence for killing three men in 1986. “And I owe society. And just being here isn’t enough. There needs to be some effort on my part to give back.”

Abdur Rashid Al-Wadud, a 39-year-old prisoner, said he was looking for a positive program for inmates in 2004 when he read an article in a Salem newspaper about a crochet group called Warm Up America.

Al-Wadud called Karen Bennett, a group volunteer, and asked whether she would come into the prison and teach inmates how to crochet.

At first, Bennett was taken aback by getting a call from prison. But she eventually agreed.

“I just wanted to teach people,” said Bennett, who has crocheted for 34 years. “To me, they’re just people who made bad choices.”

Getting Bennett on board wasn’t enough. Prison officials were skeptical about the program’s chances for success.

“It’s a prison,” Al-Wadud said. “So the first thing, no matter what, they want to know what’s going on. Do the guys just want to make a run for the fence?”

With the help of a retired prison official, though, the program started with just more than a dozen men.

The next hurdle was recruiting more members. Crocheting was not an obvious fit in an environment where toughness and respect are part of survival.

One inmate said he’d join, but only if he could crochet in a closet where no one could watch him.

The turning point was Christmas.

Everything made at the crochet club goes to charity. But in their spare time, and with yarn they purchase themselves, club members made scarves and hats and blankets for their girlfriends, wives, mothers.

The other inmates noticed.

“They were quite impressed,” Al-Wadud said.

Soon, the club had the maximum 25 members plus a waiting list. Because of such strong interest, prison officials have agreed to open a second night so more inmates can participate.

Victim advocates, however, say that because of the crimes they have committed, the inmates don’t deserve any positive attention. And some victims still burn with anger years later.

Al-Wadud was convicted in 1996 of killing Yolanda Panek, his former girlfriend, in front of their 2-year-old son.

Panek’s body was never found. And her mother, Susan Panek, said Al-Wadud has never admitted murdering her daughter, much less apologized or demonstrated remorse. Susan Panek said Al-Wadud is not motivated by charity but by the possibility of getting paroled in 2020.

“He wants out, and he knows that he has to be good to get out,” Susan Panek said. “He’s doing this to pad his resume for the parole board.”

Club members do not use the word redemption. Some see what they are doing as an act of penance or an attempt at atonement.

But for some, it’s more than that.

“I get a sense of something valuable done with the time,” said Holloway, the convicted triple murderer. “There’s not really too much selfishness in it.”

(Ashbel S. Green is a staff writer for The Oregonian of Portland, Ore.)

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Photos of Rivas, Bennett and Holloway are available via https://religionnews.com.