Week two in what some here dramatically — and perhaps not inaccurately — call “hell on earth.”
Officially, it’s FCI Fairton Camp in New Jersey. But labels don’t do justice to the reality.
Each day here is a strange, almost surreal exercise in detachment, as though I’m watching my own life play out from a distance. The simplest, most ordinary tasks from the outside world — the kind you’d never think twice about — are suddenly uphill battles in this place.
From day one, I’ve encountered characters who could populate a novel. Within hours of my arrival, a man walked right up to me, no hesitation, and said, “You’re the Congressman, but you can call me the Senator.” That was my welcoming committee.
I thought I’d seen eccentric confidence before. I hadn’t. But the surprises didn’t stop there. Two years of silence ended when I realized there was a familiar face in the dorm: Sam Miele, my former campaign fundraiser and, technically, co-defendant.
At first, I didn’t know what to expect. Anger? Indifference? Much of what had been written about him simply wasn’t true.
Yet instead of trying to tear me down to lighten the blow for himself, his silence in both the courtroom and the media was a testament to his toughness and character. Here I saw a man taking back control to survive under the same suffocating circumstances.
Sam is a very smart guy who got caught up in the hurricane of my very public unraveling, and seeing him here reminded me just how many lives were altered when my world collapsed.
This place is a kaleidoscope of humanity. Every inmate carries a story — some sordid, some tragic, some so bizarre you’d swear they were fiction. It’s a treasure trove of personalities and life histories, a living anthology of “how I ended up here” tales. Before I came, I had my own opinions about prison and the people in it. Those opinions have changed.
The truth? The system isn’t built to rehabilitate — it’s engineered to break you down, to grind away at hope until all that’s left is compliance.
That’s been my experience so far. And yet, even here, politics thrives. In fact, the political maneuvering inside this camp could give Capitol Hill a run for its money.
We’re only forty-seven men, but the alliances, rivalries, and gossip swirl constantly. I’ve made it my mission to stay out of the prison politics and the “cliques” that form.
I talk to everyone — no exceptions. If they choose to ignore me, that’s their loss. I’ve been called “Sunshine” more than a few times in my life, and I’m doing my best to live up to the name — at least on most days.
Other days… well, let’s just say I’ve cried into my mattress more than once to fall asleep.
The most soul-crushing part of this existence isn’t the food, the rules, or even the loss of privacy. It’s the disconnect. Out there, the world moves forward. In here, time just sits.
News trickles in slowly, distorted through the filter of rumor, half-truths, and whatever version of events someone claims to have seen on the TVs in the lunchroom.
The other day, inmates saw an interview President Trump gave on Newsmax, speaking on the matter of pardons for high-profile individuals — myself included.
That was enough for half the camp to start congratulating me and predicting I’d be out of here “any day now.” I’ve been quick to shut that down. Just because you hear something on TV doesn’t make it reality. I’m here for what feels like the long haul.
The question that keeps me up at night isn’t how long I’ll serve, it’s who I’ll be when, or if, I finally walk out of here.
Will the man who leaves this place resemble the George Santos who walked in? Right now, I’m not so sure. These days wear you down in ways I can’t fully explain, though I’m grateful for the few good men here who keep their heads straight and offer genuine support when I’m down. In the meantime, I thought I had found refuge in the one place I could still be creative and that felt like second nature to me — the kitchen.
I dived right into that role after being here just two days. But now, even that has soured. I’ve taken a step back, and I’m back to watching the clock as the minutes crawl by at a glacial pace. In reality, it’s prison — and prison isn’t supposed to be comfortable.
I’m reminded of that every day. The only question is: will I manage to keep my mental health stable?
Until next week, this is my dispatch from inside FCI Fairton — the latest chapter in my personal journey I never thought I’d be writing.
— George Santos
Former U.S. Representative, advocate for redemption, reform, and resilience.