A scar runs long and deep across the face of Robert David.

He killed the man who cut him. It was about drugs, it was about violence.

“I’ll admit it man, I didn’t give a damn about nothing,” David says, confessing before a group of 16 fellow inmates at Sullivan Correctional Facility. “I didn’t care, my life was violent … I killed.”

Once a hitman, David’s past is filled with weapons, drugs and murder. At 42, he’s paying for it today with a prison sentence, 15-to-life for killing.

Some of the inmates nod in silence, as rain pelts the side of the maximum-security prison. The inmates who sit today inside the white-washed prison room have all been convicted for murder, manslaughter or drugs.

The men sit on school-style chairs arranged in a circle. Many say they want to change, learn to control their violence. They want to be better fathers, husbands, friends.

They see the Alternatives to Violence Project as their avenue and civilians from the outside who run it as their saviors.

AVP is a three-day intensive workshop — nearly 30 hours long — aimed at helping inmates get along without violence, resolve conflicts without bloodshed.

The program is just one of two in New York State that deals with anti-aggression techniques in a prison system where the majority of inmates are there for crimes of violence.

“There are few things in American life that allow for people to put their defenses down and find easier ways out of situations than the usual combat pose, this is especially critical for men in prison,” says Charles Piera, director of volunteer services for several local prisons.

AVP is run by outside volunteers and inmate facilitators who use a variety of brainstorming, testimonial and role-playing exercises to open up lines of communication between inmates.

The program is held once a month in most of the state’s maximum- and medium-security prisons.

AVP was founded by the Quakers in 1975 at Green Haven Correctional Facility in Dutchess County. Because the program is all-volunteer, there is little statistical information to back up its effectiveness.

At Sullivan, inmates who took AVP and were tracked for a short time racked up fewer disciplinary reports than inmates who did not take the course.

Because the program is nonprofit and operated by volunteers, there is no cost to taxpayers.

A lot of inmates enroll in the program to get into the state’s Family Reunion Program (conjugal visits) and to look good before the parole board. Some, however, go on to take advanced AVP, train to become facilitators and take a more positive outlook on prison life.

“Ten percent of the guys in here are here because they are looking for inner peace, and they find it,” says inmate facilitator Ernest Nurse, 38, from Trinidad, serving 25-to-life for murder.

“There are things revealed in here that inmates could never talk about (outside).”

Day One

Sandy Cuellar-Oxford has been waiting for nearly a half hour as the newest group of AVP inmates shuffle stiffly through the doors.

“When it first begins I think there is certainly an awkward feeling,” says Cuellar-Oxford, who has volunteered with AVP on and off the past four years.

As the inmates take their seats in the circle, they fold their arms across their chests, stare at the ground. Some appear bored, others uneasy.

Ground rules are laid out.

No put-downs. No interrupting. Look for others’ good points.

The inmates give themselves new identities; using only their first name and an adjective before it: Surviving Shabazz, Learning Larry, Merciful Marcus, Smooth Sekou ..

There are 28 inmate facilitators for AVP and a whole handful of civilians who volunteer their time. Mary Ann Burke sits behind the circle of inmates and smiles. As coordinator of outside volunteers, she usually runs most AVP groups, has been since 1989.

For November, she’s decided to sit out. She calls the inmates, especially the ones she knows well, her friends.

One of the first exercises in AVP is a brainstorming of sorts where the inmates are asked to pick words linked to violence and non-violence.

The inmates shift in their seats to face a blackboard. Hatred, jealousy, neglect, poverty and other words are filled in with chalk under the violence category.

Respect, experience, family and education go under non-violence.

The inmates are asked to choose a word they identify with.

Bilau Lewis, 23, of the Bronx, has been in prison since he was 16 years old. He chooses “family.”

“I want to be home with my family, with my son, that’s what I’m striving for,” he says. Lewis is serving 30 to life for murder.

Inmate facilitator Jerry Balone chooses “frustration.”

“It’s frustrating that I’ve been to the parole board twice but there are people on the streets who are worse than me,” said Balone, 45, of Buffalo. He has been in prison for 28 years, convicted in three murders.

A key point of AVP is to remind ourselves we are vital, says inmate facilitator Born Allah, serving 25 to life for murder.

“We need to counteract the put-downs society attached to us,” he says, adjusting a pair of thick- rimmed glasses. “But there’s no ego-tripping or bragging in here.”

During the 10 years AVP has been at Sullivan, hundreds of inmates have gone through it. At one time, there was a six- to nine-month waiting list to get in.

Inmate Timothy Lewis, 34, waited three months to get into AVP.

“Prison is an environment that can hold you back, there are a lot of negative things in here,” says Lewis, who is serving a 10 to 20 years on drug charges. “You can fight or choose to ignore it.”

Day Two

Bob Pollak is nervous about spending his prison term at Sullivan, a prison packed with violent offenders.

The 47-year-old’s conviction for burglary is small compared to the crimes of many of the inmates who walk along the concrete floors here. He says he was placed at Sullivan because of an escape charge lodged years ago when he walked from a work release camp.

“I’m here and I’m terrified,” he says. “I could be a target for a lot of people.

With his hands stuffed in the pockets of his green prison pants, Pollak leans forward in his chair and closes his eyes to concentrate on a fellow inmate’s speech.

A small, white, laminated card has been handed out. It’s known to many as the “Bible” of AVP. Listed on the card are the program’s 12 commandments, things like: listen before judging, use surprise and humor and be patient and persistent.

“We don’t preach here,” says Nurse. The goal is to get inmates to change willingly. “It works, I’ve heard in the cellblock before, inmates who say that because of AVP they are going to let [an argument] slide.”

Nurse uses fellow AVP facilitator Jerry Balone as an example.

“When I first met him, Jerry was a real tough guy,” says Nurse. “After he came out of AVP, everybody thought he turned soft.

“I finally went through it and never stopped. I have a temper, but knowing what I know now, I’ve can control my reactions.”

This is Balone’s 84th weekend through AVP.

Leaning forward in his chair, Balone scratches his balding head. He leads a discussion on how to control tempers, using the example of one inmate sitting inside his cell blaring his radio or snapping his fingers all day.

“You only make that person defensive yelling, you gotta talk about it, you can be firm, but you don’t always have to be the tough guy.”

Larry Young, 30, of Queens, hopes AVP will help him understand others. He’s serving 10 to 20 years for selling drugs to an undercover police officer.

Young has served just one year of his sentence, but he’s already thinking about the future with his wife and two daughters.

“If you know how to keep it in control, people will look at you and approach you with respect. ”

Brian Jones, 32, of the Bronx, shares his frustration, waiting behind a corral-like area for long periods of time while correction officers stand by.

“They look at you and smile,” says Jones, serving 20-to-life for murder. “They seem to have the same attitude of having to be tough, not wanting to appear soft to others.

“It’s hard to change that.”

Day Three

A gun deal, an argument over a girlfriend, smoking pot in a movie theater and not enough minorities hired for work. This is how the third and final day of AVP began, with the inmates breaking off into smaller groups and re-enacting those scenarios, situations they will likely face on the outside.

They paste name tags to their shirts and act out various characters, Big Percy, Johnny Fresh, Bumpy Williams and others.

Scratching his stomach, inmate Young plays Big Percy, a thug-like body-guard who threatens to kick butt if more minority jobs aren’t opened up on a particular construction site.

He kicks over a wooden table and sends it crashing to the ground. “You got a few hours before we come back,” he says to the construction manager, sauntering out the door, a sly grin on his face shown only to the audience.

After more acting, an accord is reached and the audience of inmates cheers.

On the final day of AVP, the inmates are more relaxed, slapping each other on the back in praise. They often laugh out loud.

Inmate Pollak is relieved, he tells the group.

“When I see you guys now in the hallway you’re not a stranger to me anymore. If I see you in the yard I don’t have to fear because I know you. This is peace.”

Inmate facilitator Sekou Shakur smiles at the men. Before AVP, he too, was negative: “I was a bad kid in prison.”

Five years ago, Shakur enrolled in AVP.

The change in each of the inmates is why Cuellar-Oxford volunteers her time. “I draw strength from this, we need this out on the streets,” she says.

The final AVP exercise focuses on trust.

Bilau Lewis stands in the middle of eight inmates, his arms crossed over his chest. He lets his body fall back and trusts the inmates will catch him.

They do, as he is passed around the circle.

“The guys would never have been able to do this on Friday,” whispers Cuellar-Oxford.

A table is moved to the end of the room, Shakur jumps on top of it. He runs and dives off into a crowd of outstretched arms. The inmates take turns.

Soon after, it’s time to leave. The inmates stand back in their circle.

Shakur, holding a big ball of various-colored yarn leads off. He chooses someone in the circle, praises him and tosses the ball of yarn, holding onto one end of the string.

Each time the yarn is passed, the thrower hangs onto the string. The result: a web of yarn is woven back and forth across the circle.

The ball is tossed to David. Others are glassy-eyed with tears. For some of the inmates here, AVP may be the only outlet they’ve ever had to express their emotions.

For David, it’s the beginning of a future learning how to laugh.

“This community here brought so much out of me,” he says, turning the ball of yarn over in is right hand.

“I haven’t laughed like this since I was a child.”