I used to believe that the UK should bring back the death penalty. If someone took a life, I reasoned, then they had no right live the life that they had denied their victim, and they could never redeem themselves from an action that was irreversible.

So it was with some shock that I found myself sympathising with a man in prison convicted for murder. A couple of years ago I stumbled across an article written by someone who was corresponding with a prisoner, and the article had a link to a website with convicted criminals who were appealing for pen pals. I was idly flicking through profiles, trying to avoid writing an essay, when one profile caught my attention. It haunted me for a couple of weeks.

Eventually I wrote a letter with a fake name, left it sitting on my desk for another week, then in a moment of madness slapped on a stamp and posted it before I could change my mind. I thought it would be a one-off, a shout into the abyss. A week later I received I reply.

My hands shook as I opened the letter. It was surprisingly poignant and moving. I received a glimpse into a world that I had never really contemplated – a high-level security prison. I felt compelled to write back.

The man I was writing to was a convicted murderer. He informed me that there was no toilet in his cell, only a bucket. To access a toilet, or washing facilities, he had to be let through doors operated remotely. He was under constant surveillance. His letters, and my letters, were scrutinised closely. He was often subjected to full body (including anal and foreskin) searches, and his cell was regularly ransacked, with his belongings strewn about the room and photos ripped in half. I was horrified.

But what I found more surprising was how entertaining, thought-provoking and insightful his letters were. This man was clearly intelligent, and desperately lonely. Our letters covered everything – art, music, literature, politics, philosophy. What had initially seemed a charitable deed became rewarding.

So it was with interest that I witnessed the reactions of friends and family to my new friend. My parents requested only that I withhold my name and home address, but other than that they said it was my choice. “If you are his main source of human contact, then I feel very sorry for him,” my mother surmised.

My friends were less relaxed. Many whom I had previously seen as liberal suddenly disapproved. “He murdered someone” is, perhaps unsurprisingly, the phrase that I often hear. “Have you thought about his victim?” is what I am usually asked. I’ve thought about his victim a lot, as it so happens.

But, regardless of what he may have done in the past, he has certainly paid the price. Twenty years in a high-security prison takes its toll. Friends, family, partners, children, have all moved on, while he remains stagnant and alone, surrounded by violent and often mentally unstable inmates. He is a real person, capable of the same grief and regret as the rest of us. In my view, his actions twenty years ago, while awful, do not define who he is and how he should be treated forever more.

Prisoners in this country cannot vote in elections. In the high-level security prison which he attends, prisoners are forced to choose between working and receiving an income, or receiving an education; they are not allowed to do both.  

I suppose I’ve always felt distanced from prisons because it was incomprehensible to me that I could end up in one. I was raised in an affluent, loving family, and attended private schools and church every Sunday. I’m sat here now studying at Cambridge, receiving a world-class education and meeting some of the brightest minds in the country. This isn’t to say that I haven’t experienced disappointment, and grief, and hardship, or that I haven’t had to work hard to get here. But I felt a sense of entitlement, coupled with the belief that I couldn’t ever have my rights taken from me in the way that he has. I have never had any real reason or need to commit a crime. And yet I had all too easily sat in judgement of others who had been driven to desperate acts because they had been denied the privileges of the life that I have been handed.

One day the man I write to will be released, and expected to rehabilitate into society. He has lived among the most dangerous men in the country for twenty years, and will struggle to get a job with his criminal record. He will be unleashed in a society where 45 per cent of the British population support bringing back capital punishment. He has not interacted with ordinary members of the public for two decades. Part of the reason why I write is to give him some indication of what normal life is like, and what normal, sociable interaction is like. And in some way, I also benefit; he reminds me that not everyone has had the same chances that I have, that no one starts out in life with the intention of becoming a criminal.

It’s easy to think of criminals as thugs and neanderthals. It’s also easy to not think about criminals as real people. I know that I certainly didn’t. But, when I think about the man I write to, I think about a man who is asking for human interaction, who is asking to be accepted and involved in society once again. And for all our sakes, as well as his, I want to say - welcome.