Sometimes, Ifrah would take portraits that deeply engaged the prisoners – resulting in images that have the capacity to speak of hope, like the pregnant girl sat beside a bunch of flowers, or the woman who lies in the single patch of sun that shines on the yard, her eyes closed against the coils of barbed wire that hang just above her head. But in the intensity of their stare – and in this context of institutional confinement and decay – there’s a weary sadness to many of Ifrah’s portraits, a symbiosis between the women’s environment and the way they present themselves to the camera. It’s natural to focus on the small comforts they rely on – the cigarettes, their clothing, the tattoos and jewellery that elevate their singularity – and reflect on how paltry the comfort must be. You can’t help but wonder if they’re ever going to get out.