These men know what it takes to stay out of prison. Now they are helping others do the same.

Unable to post bail, Elijah Peterson, 30, awoke as he had so many mornings before: in a Philadelphia jail cell longing to go home.

His daily routine started with morning prayers, and once again he requested, “Please, Allah, get me out of this situation, because I got kids and responsibilities out there.” This had been Peterson’s life since getting arrested about six months ago.

But Jan. 23 proved to be unlike any other day.

“Lo and behold, I was sitting there watching TV. A [correctional officer] comes and says ‘Peterson, pack up.’ I thought I was being transferred to a whole different jail.”

Instead, Peterson learned he had been selected to be part of a surprise bailout organized by Tone Barr, 45, community liaison of The Philadelphia Masjid, and his network of friends who have dubbed themselves The Brotherhood.

Barr has spent years connecting with people who support each other with community efforts: feeding the hungry, providing pop-up services for the unsheltered, hosting recognition banquets, getting youth jobs, and creating scholarships for high school students.

Ameer Barber, 43, Suleiman Hassan, 45, and Tyreek Williams, 37, joined Barr in the basement auditorium at the Philadelphia Masjid a few days after their first bailout event to recall how it came about and discuss their plans.

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Around Thanksgiving last year, Barr was having a conversations with several people in his extended “family.” How could they do more?

“Changing lives, brightening futures, that was our goal,” Barr said.

Their solution was to provide full-service reentry support, the kind they all wished they had when they left prison.

“Changing lives, brightening futures, that was our goal.”

“Everybody [in the network] has experienced prison. We know what’s on the other side of that, and if you don’t have a good support system, the likelihood is very high you are going left,” Barr said.

The Brotherhood, and the bailout events, are new efforts that they hope to maintain without the usual bureaucracy. “This is not a 501(c)(3), this is not a nonprofit, this is not government [funded]. These are brothers from the hood, the inner city, that collectively came together because we care,” Barr said.

Brotherhood members put up a total of $10,000 to post bail for as many people as possible, surround them with emotional support, and provide critical resources. Barr said he doesn’t reveal the number of people bailed out or when the next bailout date is in an attempt to manage the thousands of requests they would receive. The January bailout received over 100,000 views on Barber’s, Hassan’s, and Barr’s social media accounts.

When Mahir Ziyad, 20, found out he was getting bailed out, first thing he did was make a thank-you call to the only person he could think of who would pay his bail. “I called my mom and said, ‘I love you,’” said Ziyad, “but my mom said that it wasn’t her.“

The night before, Barr had selected from a list of 100 people, looking for ideal candidates for the bailout. The most important qualifier is they had to have been facing charges related to low-level, nonviolent offenses.

The group’s support doesn’t stop with paying the bail. They all draw on their experiences within the prison system to create a more authentic support experience that addresses the needs of returning residents.

Ziyad called the bailout a miracle, adding that he knew that without a second chance that included intensive mentoring, he might not be able to stay out of prison.

“If I didn’t hear from Tone, I would be right back in the streets,” Ziyad said. Instead, Barr is mentoring Ziyad on how to transition successfully into legitimate employment — without another probation violation on his file.

“So when they come home, that’s one of the most vulnerable times for you to get into trouble, because you’re looking for things to do so,” Barr said. “If they don’t have the resources, they are going to go back to what they know best. There’s a lot of people bailing people out of jail, but who is actually placing them directly into jobs?”

Each member of the Brotherhood brings expertise, money, and commitment to the table. Barber, the owner of a junk-removal company and a social media influencer, said, “I pretty much was always locked up for selling drugs my whole life. But when I started realizing a lot of the people I had come up with were getting killed or going to jail forever, I just felt like it was time to join the fight, get on the front lines, and pull these kids out of the streets.”

Hassan helps with finding shelter but specializes in substance abuse recovery through his 10-year-old nonprofit, Soldiers for Recovery.

“I was homeless three times,” he said. “I use to live in Kensington. I use to be on heroin, pills, alcohol, and I turned my life around 10 years go. What I do is connect people that suffer from substance abuse disorder with resources.”

While they were in the Masjid’s basement, Peterson got a call to come to training for his new security job. It was only his third day out of jail on drug charges, and he was determined not to go back.

“They were really there every step of the way,” he said. “The night I got out, they introduced themselves. They asked me, did I have a place to go, making sure I had a place. This is my third day with them. I’m not hungry. I’m not cold.”

He had started selling drugs or “chasing money” as a teen, determined to find a better way to make a living other than the hardships he saw his adoptive parents endure as they eked out an existence. The problem was low-skilled labor meant low-paid labor.

“They were really there every step of the way.”

“Lot of these jobs wasn’t paying us what we needed because we didn’t have the qualifications,” he said. “So we got it the way we knew how to.”

Because of the connection with the Brotherhood, Peterson sees his second chance as his biggest opportunity yet. He has since picked up a second job, at a big-box retailer. He told Barr that it was the first time in his life that he felt purpose. “I’ve never had a support system coming out [of jail] that’s there with you,” Peterson said.

“We want to continuously stay in contact. Holding onto them is the key,” said Barber, who turned to Peterson and added, “You are a part of us. You’re family.”