Cat@lyst blogsCommunity Access Techknowledgyhttp://cat.org.au/blog/atom/feed2007-05-10T02:51:53+00:00Law Students FOR the Death Penaltyhttp://cat.org.au/node/3092008-02-28T20:57:56+00:002008-02-28T20:57:56+00:00stacy1.5Lhttp://cat.org.au/node/3072007-12-20T17:50:43+00:002007-12-20T17:50:43+00:00stacyThe Ballad of Britton v. Turnerhttp://cat.org.au/node/3062007-11-28T22:58:16+00:002007-11-28T22:58:16+00:00stacyInternet datinghttp://cat.org.au/node/3052007-11-02T07:00:34+00:002007-11-02T07:00:34+00:00stacyLoss and Lawhttp://cat.org.au/node/3042007-10-10T22:58:06+00:002007-10-10T22:58:06+00:00stacyPrisons are Today's 'Terra Nullius'http://cat.org.au/node/3032007-09-01T15:20:54+00:002007-09-01T15:20:54+00:00stacyJusice Action newspaper for prisoners and their communities. The concept of Terra Nullius is one of the more odious concepts created by white Australians to justify the slaughter and mistreatment of Aborigines.
Prisons are Today's Terra Nullius.
It is no coincidence that Aboriginal people are imprisoned at 13 times the rate of white Australians. Ever since the colonization of Australia, the penal colony authorities choose not to see certain people if it happens to suit their colonial agenda. They see "empty land", and by doing so, criminalize the people in it.
With the white people came the penal colony, and Terra Nullius. But did the antipodean conquistadors declare Terra Nullius, or did they build it? Australia was one big jail cell so that the English didn't have to see or deal with the social crises happening in their own home. So they sent them to Terra Nullius. The prime lands were cleared and fortresses built. The first white government of Australia consisted entirely of prison guards. Since then, the percentage of the country's resources devoted to imprisonment has diminished, but scores of prisons still remain as the foundation of the "free", civilian government we claim as our democracy. But there was never a point, in over 200 years, when the "free" citizens of Australia demanded that the power of the prison-guard government be checked by any other authority. And so we find ourselves with an unbroken line of prison guards with the power to make people disappear.
These pockets of Terra Nullius are anything but fortresses today, with their 'invisible' inhabitants coming and going on a regular basis. Recidivism has increased from 2% in the penal colony days to 40% today. During our stints in this modern Terra Nullius, they try in various ways to make us into non-people, before sending us out again into the communities of whole people. Prisoners have been stripped of our right to vote, to smoke, to reproduce, to participate in our own community, and to pray to Allah without being labelled a terrorist.
Visitation rights and access to family and loved ones are receding with the tide of compassion from those in Parliament House. This reached a new low recently when the government attempted to remove the use of technology to preserve sperm and eggs for inmates, an attack on the fundamental ability to reproduce (regardless of incarceration).
The injustice does not stop at loss of liberty. The entitlement to practice the religion of our choice was removed when Muslim converts in the HRMU were paraded on the front page of the Sunday paper amid claims of terrorist rings operating within prisons. The attacks on Hicks, Habib and Haneef show that the Rule of Law and due process are neither respected nor available as viable mediators between the government and its citizen.
There are even prohibitions against participating in communities of prisoners. 'Framed', a previous Justice Action magazine by and for prisoners, ex-prisoners, and their families and friends was banned from the prisons for being critical of Corrective Services. The President of The Human Rights and Equal Opportunities Commission (HREOC), John von Doussa QC, found that the government's practices breached the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights: "...the right to freedom of opinion and expression... includes freedom to hold opinions without interference to seek, receive and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers."
But in this Terra Nullius, there can be no human rights where there are no humans. Consider the case of Craig Behr. He was kicked to death after being placed in a cell with a psychotic, homicidal prisoner who once thought he was the champion race-horse Phar Lap. That's one way to make people disappear.
Another way is to deny them a voice. Consider the NSW Government's response to the case of Cory Brough, a mentally ill Aboriginal boy who was stripped naked and placed in isolation in an adult prison when he was just 16 years old. He managed to file a complaint to the United Nations Human Rights Committee. The government argued that he had other options of redress such as the proper channels or even a court challenge. Cory observed that, "...complaints within the prison are received by the prison governor, the very person who authorized (my) conditions of detention...". The Committee noted that, "Australian courts will not interfere with administrative decisions of prison authorities..." (CCPR/C/86/D/1184/2003).
Is this not a wink and a nod reminiscent of that wink and nod that must have happened some time in the 1770's between Cook and Phillip? 'Do you see anybody, Art?' 'I don't see anybody, Jim.'
It is beautifully ironic therefore that an Aboriginal woman prisoner recently fought the government and won back the right to vote. In 2006, the Howard Government passed legislation which denied all prisoners the right to vote. This law was challenged in the High Court by Vickie Roach, an Aboriginal woman at the Dame Phyllis Frost Prison in Melbourne. In orders made on August 30, 2007, the High Court struck down the blanket prohibition on prisoners voting.
Speaking after the decision was handed down, Philip Lynch, Director of the Human Rights Law Resource Centre which ran the case, said, "This is a common sense decision. The Howard Government disenfranchised prisoners on the spurious ground that to do so would promote respect for the social contract and the rule of law. Far from achieving this, denial of the fundamental human right to vote results in social exclusion, isolation, resentment and unaccountable and unrepresentative government."
We wonder who she's going to vote for...
When will they learn that simply refusing to see us does not make us go away? If you feel like an invisible person, you can get involved in Just Us. We publish to give voice to those who are told to be quiet and so that prisoners can stay informed about their rights. Justice Action encourages all prisoners to submit articles, letters or poems in any language or format. Those of you reading Just Us on the outside can help us by donating money and volunteering. Contributions keep Just Us relevant. ]]>Jusice Action newspaper for prisoners and their communities. The concept of Terra Nullius is one of the more odious concepts created by white Australians to justify the slaughter and mistreatment of Aborigines.
Prisons are Today's Terra Nullius.
It is no coincidence that Aboriginal people are imprisoned at 13 times the rate of white Australians. Ever since the colonization of Australia, the penal colony authorities choose not to see certain people if it happens to suit their colonial agenda. They see "empty land", and by doing so, criminalize the people in it.
With the white people came the penal colony, and Terra Nullius. But did the antipodean conquistadors declare Terra Nullius, or did they build it? Australia was one big jail cell so that the English didn't have to see or deal with the social crises happening in their own home. So they sent them to Terra Nullius. The prime lands were cleared and fortresses built. The first white government of Australia consisted entirely of prison guards. Since then, the percentage of the country's resources devoted to imprisonment has diminished, but scores of prisons still remain as the foundation of the "free", civilian government we claim as our democracy. But there was never a point, in over 200 years, when the "free" citizens of Australia demanded that the power of the prison-guard government be checked by any other authority. And so we find ourselves with an unbroken line of prison guards with the power to make people disappear.
These pockets of Terra Nullius are anything but fortresses today, with their 'invisible' inhabitants coming and going on a regular basis. Recidivism has increased from 2% in the penal colony days to 40% today. During our stints in this modern Terra Nullius, they try in various ways to make us into non-people, before sending us out again into the communities of whole people. Prisoners have been stripped of our right to vote, to smoke, to reproduce, to participate in our own community, and to pray to Allah without being labelled a terrorist.
Visitation rights and access to family and loved ones are receding with the tide of compassion from those in Parliament House. This reached a new low recently when the government attempted to remove the use of technology to preserve sperm and eggs for inmates, an attack on the fundamental ability to reproduce (regardless of incarceration).
The injustice does not stop at loss of liberty. The entitlement to practice the religion of our choice was removed when Muslim converts in the HRMU were paraded on the front page of the Sunday paper amid claims of terrorist rings operating within prisons. The attacks on Hicks, Habib and Haneef show that the Rule of Law and due process are neither respected nor available as viable mediators between the government and its citizen.
There are even prohibitions against participating in communities of prisoners. 'Framed', a previous Justice Action magazine by and for prisoners, ex-prisoners, and their families and friends was banned from the prisons for being critical of Corrective Services. The President of The Human Rights and Equal Opportunities Commission (HREOC), John von Doussa QC, found that the government's practices breached the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights: "...the right to freedom of opinion and expression... includes freedom to hold opinions without interference to seek, receive and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers."
But in this Terra Nullius, there can be no human rights where there are no humans. Consider the case of Craig Behr. He was kicked to death after being placed in a cell with a psychotic, homicidal prisoner who once thought he was the champion race-horse Phar Lap. That's one way to make people disappear.
Another way is to deny them a voice. Consider the NSW Government's response to the case of Cory Brough, a mentally ill Aboriginal boy who was stripped naked and placed in isolation in an adult prison when he was just 16 years old. He managed to file a complaint to the United Nations Human Rights Committee. The government argued that he had other options of redress such as the proper channels or even a court challenge. Cory observed that, "...complaints within the prison are received by the prison governor, the very person who authorized (my) conditions of detention...". The Committee noted that, "Australian courts will not interfere with administrative decisions of prison authorities..." (CCPR/C/86/D/1184/2003).
Is this not a wink and a nod reminiscent of that wink and nod that must have happened some time in the 1770's between Cook and Phillip? 'Do you see anybody, Art?' 'I don't see anybody, Jim.'
It is beautifully ironic therefore that an Aboriginal woman prisoner recently fought the government and won back the right to vote. In 2006, the Howard Government passed legislation which denied all prisoners the right to vote. This law was challenged in the High Court by Vickie Roach, an Aboriginal woman at the Dame Phyllis Frost Prison in Melbourne. In orders made on August 30, 2007, the High Court struck down the blanket prohibition on prisoners voting.
Speaking after the decision was handed down, Philip Lynch, Director of the Human Rights Law Resource Centre which ran the case, said, "This is a common sense decision. The Howard Government disenfranchised prisoners on the spurious ground that to do so would promote respect for the social contract and the rule of law. Far from achieving this, denial of the fundamental human right to vote results in social exclusion, isolation, resentment and unaccountable and unrepresentative government."
We wonder who she's going to vote for...
When will they learn that simply refusing to see us does not make us go away? If you feel like an invisible person, you can get involved in Just Us. We publish to give voice to those who are told to be quiet and so that prisoners can stay informed about their rights. Justice Action encourages all prisoners to submit articles, letters or poems in any language or format. Those of you reading Just Us on the outside can help us by donating money and volunteering. Contributions keep Just Us relevant. ]]>An ocean of misery but not a drop to drinkhttp://cat.org.au/node/2912007-07-10T00:11:50+00:002007-07-10T19:43:05+00:00stacy
I arrived at the camp at Arivaca on Sunday evening, clean and fresh, and somewhat prepared for the heat after the weekend riding mountain bikes on the migrant trails. We ate dinner and discussed the plans for the following day. There was supposed to be 19 tons of bottled water delivered to the pedestrian port in Nogales Arizona/Sonora, very close to the office where it would be stored in Mexico. This was meant to be easier than driving it through in loads, as had been done last year.
The water never showed up, so 14 people went over to the Mariposa port to see the repatriated migrant station that NMD & the Sonoran Commision for Aid to Migrants share responsibility for. A border agent on the U.S. side stopped us all as we went to cross the road at the crosswalk on a busy industrial freeway. No, we couldn't go that way... we had to cross through the turnstile in the U.S. port structure. The Mexicans have no port structure of course, just a rickety gate that is never closed. Steve argued with the man that it was much safer to cross at the crosswalk. But the other was the official entry and we were advised to use it. Was he saying that we *must* walk through that way? Yes, he said, we were compelled to use the U.S. entrance. OK then, Steve started off towards the structure. No, he had to wait, the officer was not finished with us yet. We were basically under inspection. Basically? Yes, we were under inspection. Ok then, what do you want us to do? We could leave if we wanted to. I explained that we were with No More Deaths and going to the migrant repat station. He already knew. Ok then, can we go? Finally he led us back to the structure. We only stayed a short time and then headed back through. The same officer was there, but didn't see the fellow standing at the adjacent turnstile checking our I.D.s. I stopped on the other side and waited for the others. Suddenly, officer dickwad comes over. "You can't just walk through you know. You have to wait." Crikey, what now? Then I realized that he couldn't see. I said we had already been cleared and pointed. He conceded. I was tempted to say, "You know, I'm really sorry about your penis, but please don't waste our time."
We returned to camp and waited for the afternoon patrol. It is true that the heat in Arizona is dry, but at 110F (44C) it is still very dangerous. One volunteer from Minnesota was already vomiting on the first night, and both of them ended up leaving after 2 days. You can sit in the shade and drink cool water, but your skin is still hot. The sweat dries very quickly everywhere except where you are sitting or your beltline, or under your backpack if you are walking. Sometimes you don't even experience yourself sweating because it is dry before you are aware it is there. But you can never escape the heat out there. In the city you have AC or swamp coolers, but there is no electricity in camp. The best you can do is improvise by wetting down your shirt or spraying water on your skin. We sat around the table, talking and drinking copious amounts of electrolytes until 3 or 4, when the afternoon patrol goes out. (click on title for more)
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I arrived at the camp at Arivaca on Sunday evening, clean and fresh, and somewhat prepared for the heat after the weekend riding mountain bikes on the migrant trails. We ate dinner and discussed the plans for the following day. There was supposed to be 19 tons of bottled water delivered to the pedestrian port in Nogales Arizona/Sonora, very close to the office where it would be stored in Mexico. This was meant to be easier than driving it through in loads, as had been done last year.
The water never showed up, so 14 people went over to the Mariposa port to see the repatriated migrant station that NMD & the Sonoran Commision for Aid to Migrants share responsibility for. A border agent on the U.S. side stopped us all as we went to cross the road at the crosswalk on a busy industrial freeway. No, we couldn't go that way... we had to cross through the turnstile in the U.S. port structure. The Mexicans have no port structure of course, just a rickety gate that is never closed. Steve argued with the man that it was much safer to cross at the crosswalk. But the other was the official entry and we were advised to use it. Was he saying that we *must* walk through that way? Yes, he said, we were compelled to use the U.S. entrance. OK then, Steve started off towards the structure. No, he had to wait, the officer was not finished with us yet. We were basically under inspection. Basically? Yes, we were under inspection. Ok then, what do you want us to do? We could leave if we wanted to. I explained that we were with No More Deaths and going to the migrant repat station. He already knew. Ok then, can we go? Finally he led us back to the structure. We only stayed a short time and then headed back through. The same officer was there, but didn't see the fellow standing at the adjacent turnstile checking our I.D.s. I stopped on the other side and waited for the others. Suddenly, officer dickwad comes over. "You can't just walk through you know. You have to wait." Crikey, what now? Then I realized that he couldn't see. I said we had already been cleared and pointed. He conceded. I was tempted to say, "You know, I'm really sorry about your penis, but please don't waste our time."
We returned to camp and waited for the afternoon patrol. It is true that the heat in Arizona is dry, but at 110F (44C) it is still very dangerous. One volunteer from Minnesota was already vomiting on the first night, and both of them ended up leaving after 2 days. You can sit in the shade and drink cool water, but your skin is still hot. The sweat dries very quickly everywhere except where you are sitting or your beltline, or under your backpack if you are walking. Sometimes you don't even experience yourself sweating because it is dry before you are aware it is there. But you can never escape the heat out there. In the city you have AC or swamp coolers, but there is no electricity in camp. The best you can do is improvise by wetting down your shirt or spraying water on your skin. We sat around the table, talking and drinking copious amounts of electrolytes until 3 or 4, when the afternoon patrol goes out. (click on title for more)
We drove on terrible dirt roads in a 4WD truck out to a point indicated on the GPS. We grabbed our camelbacks, gallon jugs of water, and backpacks with food, small water bottles and medical kits and headed out on a trail. Nothing grows over about 6 or 7 feet tall. Whether you call it a tree or a shrub, it has only tiny leaves and casts very little shade. Most things have sharp spines that can draw blood if you merely brush past them. The ground is dusty rose-beige with fist sized rocks. Anything facing the sun is too hot to touch let alone sit on. Metal inflicts serious burns in seconds. We mapped a few GPS points and called out to the seemingly empty hillsides. "Hola companeros! Que no tengan miedo, somos de la iglesia. Tenemos agua y comida y atencion medical." Hello friends! Don't be afraid, we are from the church. We have water and food and medical aid. Ok, I'm an athiest, but I understand the logic that it helps them to believe that we are not border patrol. Evidence for that logic was given by a first hand source, however I don't dare tell the story here until such time as humanitarian aid can't be considered a crime in the U.S.
I took this picture on the 4th of July... the irony was too much.
Geoff's greeting to the migrants is in a conversational tone, as opposed to mine, which is more of a call out, as loud as I can manage without straining. He says things like, 'we're here to help you, nothing more, if you need help, shout out, you can trust us'. I think a combination of the two would be an ideal greeting. Cyril, the camp coordinator, is leaving for Vermont this week. We joked that he could go for hikes in the wilderness for a vacation. He would be waking up at 5 am and heading out amongst the pines, looking for Canadians in distress and shouting 'Bon jour mon ami!'.
I slept on a cot under a garage tent that was open on both ends. It creaked and rustled in the breeze. As I drifted off to sleep, I heard something rustling a little more intently not far from my head. I looked around the corner of the stack of cots to see the sillhouette of a coatimundi sticking his head into a plastic bin of backpacks filled with food for migrants.
In the morning, I awoke before sunrise. Xylem was making coffee in the trailer. I wandered down the path to the "bathroom", which is neither a room, nor a bath. It is a semi-secluded spot with tarps strung from the trees and about a dozen 5 gallon buckets, one of which has a snap-on toilet seat. There is also a bucket with toilet paper, baby wipes, and hand sanitizer. Another holds leaves and soil for sprinkling on the finished product. I walked back to the kitchen area and washed my hands out of a blue 'aquatainer'. The aquatainers are filled every other day up at one of the neighbors' well. There is also a freezer in a shed which is used to freeze bottles of water and keep in a large cooler with perishable foods.
I had a stale croissant with my coffee. I slathered my vulnerable bits with sunscreen and filled my camelback. At about 6:30 a.m., we headed off in the red truck to the next trail. On the trails, we looked for fresh footprints and trash. The trash is mostly water bottles, electrolyte bottles, and RedBull cans. The coyotes give RedBull to the people lagging in the back. This may speed them up for an hour or so, but then I imagine they must crash hard from the caffeine, sugar and futher dehydration. Many are left behind by their group because they can't walk fast enough due to blisters and/or fatigue. We encountered a migrant limping alongside Arivaca Rd. on the way out to camp. He had been lost for 7 days. He was a fit young man, so he had survived, but he wanted us to call Border Patrol. He was giving up.
Even if you find a road to surrender yourself to the tender mercies of the two-week veterans of BP, they may not stop for you if they think you are beyond help... since you're not a threat, you are not worthy of their attention. If you can't find a road, you may try to find some shade, sit down and wait to die, as was Margarita when a NMD patrol found her. Elsewhere, in Ironwood, a woman who had been left behind was found dead. Even so, people were relieved that she was found before the coyotes and vultures got to her. A gruesome incident from the previous year is recounted often. A woman died in her son's arms. Her son made it home and sent his grandfather, the girl's father, to look for her body. When he found her, she had no face. He only identified her by a ring on her finger, which was found with her arm 50 yards away.
At times I could forget these haunting facts and enjoy a nice, stinkin' hot walk in nature. But around every corner was a reminder or 50 that I was far from alone out there. They estimate that about 1200 - 1500 people cross the border every day, and it takes 3-4 days to get to Tucson, so there could be as many as 6000 people in the desert on a busy night. It is eerie to be walking and know that when you shout out, there *are* people who can hear you, but choose not to respond. And yet, there is only the sound of the breeze if you are lucky enough to have one, military jets headed for Iraq, and the occasional cow, suffering in the heat, trying to find something edible amongst the cactus and thorns.
The migrants often fill their bottles with cattle water. The water sits in damm/ned pools called 'tanks' When the water dries up, they are muddy at the bottom and cows get stuck. They die there because it is impossible to bring a tractor into the rugged terrain. One can only hope that the farmer finds them and shoots them in the head so they die quickly. But they then rot there, and when the rains come, the pool fills up and covers the carcasses. Drinking this water causes vomiting and diarrhea.
By mid week the monsoons were giving us hints of what was to come. A couple of 5 minute storms instructed us in how to cover everything with tarps, and make sure our stuff was somewhere dry before we left on patrol. Then on the last patrol, it let loose. Three of us were walking on a trail that goes over the ridgetop of some low hills. We noticed thunder in the distance. We watched for lighting as we walked and counted the seconds between flash and rumble. 25... 19... 2. Geoff started running downhill and we both followed. Soon, fat drops of rain began to fall, faster and faster until we were all thoroughly soaked. The dust turned to mud. We walked along the wash in a downpour. It stopped for 10 minutes or so, but then opened up again. We made it back to camp and dried off, but the rain kept going, on and off, nearly all night. When the sun set, we could see all the lightning. There must have been thousands of flashes. 2 or 3 every second, some closer than others. The wind shook the tents and the garage tents creaked and groaned against their lashings. I stood under one of them and watched the show, imagining what it would be like to be out there with nothing to hide under. If Margarita had not been found, she would have been sitting on that hillside, with lightning striking all around, soaked to the bone, cold, shaking, miserable.
Margarita was lucky. We brought her back to the camp and called 911. BORSTAR, the search and rescue arm of BP came out and took her in his truck to the Arivaca Fire Dept. where an ambulance was waiting for her. They loaded her inside and hooked her up to the equipment and a bag of IV fluids. Kate and I spoke with the EMT's and tried to advocate for her that she needed to go to the hospital. He thought she was lying. He thought she looked too good to have been out in the desert for 10 days. She can rest in Mexico just as well as at St. Mary's in Tucson, he said. I told him that there was nowhere for her to rest there. He questioned how I knew this. I said that I worked at the port before. Then she can go home he said. But she's from Guerrero, a 20+ hour bus ride away. Where is that? he asked... Guerrero, the State of Guerrero... my voice was rising. Kate gestured for me to settle down. I listened for a moment longer and then went back to the truck to wait. I told Cyril that it looked like they were going to hand her over to BP to be deported. He said that it should be reported that they considered her condition serious enough to give her IV fluids but not enough to send her to hospital. He walked over to where Kate was standing in the back of the ambulance and I momentarily lost control and wept. All that work, and we had merely handed her over to the bigotted green uniform waiting to make her into a 3 time loser for the benefit of Wackenhut shareholders. I felt awful. Cyril came back and tried to explain that we had no choice, that we couldn't do that thing that we all wanted so badly to do. I nodded. I understood, but the tears still threatened. Cyril went back over to Kate and returned shortly. Good news, they were going to call the helicopter afterall. The relief was there, but I was exhausted and couldn't/shouldn't shout out with joy. Such a small victory in an ocean of misery. She would be safe for a little while longer, and maybe she would be allowed to go on her way after being treated, but maybe not.
I can't think of a good way to end this, because it just keeps going. I left Sunday morning and slept for 12 hours. But 10 more volunteers went out to camp and continue to search, assist, and be horrified at what they see. ]]>Giving in to Flickrhttp://cat.org.au/node/2902007-06-28T23:15:36+00:002007-06-28T23:15:36+00:00stacyRecent picshttp://cat.org.au/node/2892007-06-27T21:30:41+00:002007-09-24T23:03:34+00:00stacy
And two of his oil paintings:
]]>
And two of his oil paintings:
]]>Bush Bashinghttp://cat.org.au/node/2862007-06-24T05:09:11+00:002007-07-10T00:33:29+00:00stacy"It's not right"http://cat.org.au/node/2842007-06-09T02:06:38+00:002007-07-10T00:27:15+00:00stacyOn Mr. Thomashttp://cat.org.au/node/2822007-06-04T16:43:58+00:002007-09-19T23:55:03+00:00stacyfly agaric mushroom. They found one, and Leo said that he was going to eat one filament of the shroom, and if he died in 3 days, they would know why. He didn't die, and they threw a small, exclusive party. Mr. Thomas said that Leo had cleared out his living room of all furniture except for a shelf with glassware on it. Suddenly, Leo came running out of the hallway and ran three or four steps straight up the wall. He fell backwards, and knocked some of the glassware off the shelf onto the floor where it smashed into bits. Getting up, he went back down the hall and did the same again, this time landing on shards of broken glass. Upon rising, Mr. Thomas said that Leo didn't have a single cut on him. Leo said that this was what the Vikings took before going into battle, and that was how they got the reputation of being fierce fighters, and totally insane.
Mr. Thomas told me the story of his capture. His wife of 20 years was having an affair with a fellow invloved in drug dealing. The wife and their daughter disappeared one day, and Mr. Thomas was led to believe that they would be killed if he did not take a load of cocaine into the U.S. He almost made it, but was dobbed in by the wife's lover.
He has been in prison for 13 years, being shuffled from prison to prison according to the needs of the Corrections Corporation of America. He has researched the private prison industry and is convinced that a deal was struck with legislators; they received shares in CCA and Wakenhut/GEO in exchange for mandatory sentencing laws which keep the prisons full. The corporations receive $25,000 per person per year in tax money. The prisoners are used as slave labor for other industries, and receive substandard care, adding to the corporate profits.
I was transfixed by him. He urged me to look into his eyes as much as possible and not break away. His face is compelling, and easy to watch. Combined with tales of adventure, corruption and decadence, the time flew by. At times, I could see nothing but those eyes. The room disappeared, and we were completely alone inside each other's minds. The room was very cold though, and I was not allowed to go back to my car to get more clothes. I drew my arms inside my shirt, which concerned Mr. Thomas greatly. He asked the guard if there was something I could wear, or if they could adjust the air conditioning. No and no. "I'd love to give you some of my heat" he said, as his eyelids drooped over his pupils, leaving no doubt about his meaning.
I was not surprised, shocked or offended at his lasciviousness. Only the most naive person would expect any less from a man in prison for 13 years. I was pleased to be able to indulge him in a rare treat. At one point he interrupted me and said, 'This is marvellous, I feel like I'm sitting in a pub again!"
He asked me about my relationships, and why I had no children. I did my best to explain. He told me about his beliefs about the body and the spirit. He has become a member of the Lakota religion and goes to a sweat lodge inside the prison every Saturday. He said that in the intense heat, the spirit becomes distinct from the body for a short time. We talked at length about spirituality, and my rabid atheism. At times, he strayed into the realm of what I consider to be 'kookville', but I threw a few leading questions in, to see how far he would take it. He always stopped at the edge of looniness and offered a caveat that he had no proof, but was going on instinct. We wrangled with the question of life after death.
A prisoner sat at a small desk in the corner. He had a digital camera. Mr. Thomas proposed that we have a photo taken together to send to Leo. He could not accept my money, but agreed to let Mr. Thomas pay him later. We went into the carpeted alcove for the photo.
I invited him to visit me in Tucson when he gets out, but he said that he will be deported to Ireland immediately. He wants nothing more to do with the U.S. Government. Fair enough. He has a friend who will meet him in Ireland and help him get settled again.
As the time drew towards 3:00, our gaze was still locked. He informed me that I would be easy to hypnotize. He told me to count down from ten slowly, staring into his eyes. When I finished, he did the same. I locked into his gaze, and his face seemed to change. I saw age spots where there were none, then his face metamorphosed into what looked like an indigenous Mexican. Then told me to close my eyes. "Some flickering" he said. "What's the flickering?" I asked. He said that it is the eye movements from REM sleep.
"Visitation is over" announced the guard. We stood and hugged, and kissed, and hugged again. He thanked me for the visit and the intimacy. I said I would try to visit again over the Christmas break.
I left with the other visitors. A young black woman guard asked me if he was my husband. "No, just a friend." She raised an eyebrow. ]]>fly agaric mushroom. They found one, and Leo said that he was going to eat one filament of the shroom, and if he died in 3 days, they would know why. He didn't die, and they threw a small, exclusive party. Mr. Thomas said that Leo had cleared out his living room of all furniture except for a shelf with glassware on it. Suddenly, Leo came running out of the hallway and ran three or four steps straight up the wall. He fell backwards, and knocked some of the glassware off the shelf onto the floor where it smashed into bits. Getting up, he went back down the hall and did the same again, this time landing on shards of broken glass. Upon rising, Mr. Thomas said that Leo didn't have a single cut on him. Leo said that this was what the Vikings took before going into battle, and that was how they got the reputation of being fierce fighters, and totally insane.
Mr. Thomas told me the story of his capture. His wife of 20 years was having an affair with a fellow invloved in drug dealing. The wife and their daughter disappeared one day, and Mr. Thomas was led to believe that they would be killed if he did not take a load of cocaine into the U.S. He almost made it, but was dobbed in by the wife's lover.
He has been in prison for 13 years, being shuffled from prison to prison according to the needs of the Corrections Corporation of America. He has researched the private prison industry and is convinced that a deal was struck with legislators; they received shares in CCA and Wakenhut/GEO in exchange for mandatory sentencing laws which keep the prisons full. The corporations receive $25,000 per person per year in tax money. The prisoners are used as slave labor for other industries, and receive substandard care, adding to the corporate profits.
I was transfixed by him. He urged me to look into his eyes as much as possible and not break away. His face is compelling, and easy to watch. Combined with tales of adventure, corruption and decadence, the time flew by. At times, I could see nothing but those eyes. The room disappeared, and we were completely alone inside each other's minds. The room was very cold though, and I was not allowed to go back to my car to get more clothes. I drew my arms inside my shirt, which concerned Mr. Thomas greatly. He asked the guard if there was something I could wear, or if they could adjust the air conditioning. No and no. "I'd love to give you some of my heat" he said, as his eyelids drooped over his pupils, leaving no doubt about his meaning.
I was not surprised, shocked or offended at his lasciviousness. Only the most naive person would expect any less from a man in prison for 13 years. I was pleased to be able to indulge him in a rare treat. At one point he interrupted me and said, 'This is marvellous, I feel like I'm sitting in a pub again!"
He asked me about my relationships, and why I had no children. I did my best to explain. He told me about his beliefs about the body and the spirit. He has become a member of the Lakota religion and goes to a sweat lodge inside the prison every Saturday. He said that in the intense heat, the spirit becomes distinct from the body for a short time. We talked at length about spirituality, and my rabid atheism. At times, he strayed into the realm of what I consider to be 'kookville', but I threw a few leading questions in, to see how far he would take it. He always stopped at the edge of looniness and offered a caveat that he had no proof, but was going on instinct. We wrangled with the question of life after death.
A prisoner sat at a small desk in the corner. He had a digital camera. Mr. Thomas proposed that we have a photo taken together to send to Leo. He could not accept my money, but agreed to let Mr. Thomas pay him later. We went into the carpeted alcove for the photo.
I invited him to visit me in Tucson when he gets out, but he said that he will be deported to Ireland immediately. He wants nothing more to do with the U.S. Government. Fair enough. He has a friend who will meet him in Ireland and help him get settled again.
As the time drew towards 3:00, our gaze was still locked. He informed me that I would be easy to hypnotize. He told me to count down from ten slowly, staring into his eyes. When I finished, he did the same. I locked into his gaze, and his face seemed to change. I saw age spots where there were none, then his face metamorphosed into what looked like an indigenous Mexican. Then told me to close my eyes. "Some flickering" he said. "What's the flickering?" I asked. He said that it is the eye movements from REM sleep.
"Visitation is over" announced the guard. We stood and hugged, and kissed, and hugged again. He thanked me for the visit and the intimacy. I said I would try to visit again over the Christmas break.
I left with the other visitors. A young black woman guard asked me if he was my husband. "No, just a friend." She raised an eyebrow. ]]>On W. Edward Morganhttp://cat.org.au/node/2812007-05-30T22:34:51+00:002007-07-10T00:24:39+00:00stacyElfbrandt v. Russel in the U.S. Supreme Court. The case challenged the requirement that public school teachers sign an oath of loyalty to the U.S. Government, including a statement that you were not a communist. Barbara Elfbrandt was a tenured teacher at that point, so she could not be fired for refusing to sign the oath, but the school refused to pay her. A community of supporters formed around Barbara and her husband to provide support for them while the challenge was working its way through the system. My parents met on the campaign, and the rest is history... ]]>Elfbrandt v. Russel in the U.S. Supreme Court. The case challenged the requirement that public school teachers sign an oath of loyalty to the U.S. Government, including a statement that you were not a communist. Barbara Elfbrandt was a tenured teacher at that point, so she could not be fired for refusing to sign the oath, but the school refused to pay her. A community of supporters formed around Barbara and her husband to provide support for them while the challenge was working its way through the system. My parents met on the campaign, and the rest is history...
Ed is now 84 I believe, and has survived prostate cancer, a stroke, and a crushed vertibrae in the last 10 years. A group of his friends gather for lunch at La Indita every Wednesday. He and Barbara are now married and they come religiously. Last Wednesday, Ed couldn't make it, but Barbara came and said he was asleep at home, and had been in pain through the night.
Today, I got a call from my father that he had been admitted to the ER that morning. I got dressed and went down there. Having been through this once before, I know not to waste any time. The scenario is almost identical. He has a mysterious pain in his back and hip that got to be excruciating. He is on morphine shots now and they want to do an MRI to see what's causing the pain. Ed even told me that the pain was so bad he was thinking of checking out.
So here I am again, in close proximity to that liminal space between life and death.
I went to see Pirates of the Carribean 3 last night. There is a scene where the ship goes to Davy Jones' Locker to rescue someone or other. The heroine sees her father in a dinghy drifting past the ship. She throws him a rope, but he doesn't take it. He just keeps drifting slowly past. They talk until he is out of sight. That's exactly what it's like. The person is there in front of you, but they are slipping away, so slowly that you think maybe you can still do something. But sooner or later, they drift out of reach... forever.
I have begun typing his poetry, but not fast enough. I wanted to tape record his stories of being a civil rights attorney in Tucson, but I didn't do it. Maybe now it's too late. ]]>Birthday to Deathday in under two weekshttp://cat.org.au/node/2802007-05-25T03:57:54+00:002007-07-10T00:25:28+00:00stacy"MOnday 24th. My birthday. I go to Edgecliffe to get more ascorbate shot up me then to Randwick to scream at my oncologist. I can't walk straight. I think I will have to end the log here since I am perpertually weak. I am dying. Goodbye.
Broadcast message from root@pred:
Sending all processes the TERM signal.
<predator>"
I suppose a quick death was the best present he could have gotten. Well, happy bloody b'day, dude... and I _am_ getting on with my life, but I still won't forget you. ]]>"MOnday 24th. My birthday. I go to Edgecliffe to get more ascorbate shot up me then to Randwick to scream at my oncologist. I can't walk straight. I think I will have to end the log here since I am perpertually weak. I am dying. Goodbye.
Broadcast message from root@pred:
Sending all processes the TERM signal.
<predator>"
I suppose a quick death was the best present he could have gotten. Well, happy bloody b'day, dude... and I _am_ getting on with my life, but I still won't forget you. ]]>NMD fundraising mailout! Yay!http://cat.org.au/node/2792007-05-10T02:51:53+00:002007-05-10T02:51:53+00:00stacy
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I took this picture on the 4th of July... the irony was too much.
Geoff's greeting to the migrants is in a conversational tone, as opposed to mine, which is more of a call out, as loud as I can manage without straining. He says things like, 'we're here to help you, nothing more, if you need help, shout out, you can trust us'. I think a combination of the two would be an ideal greeting. Cyril, the camp coordinator, is leaving for Vermont this week. We joked that he could go for hikes in the wilderness for a vacation. He would be waking up at 5 am and heading out amongst the pines, looking for Canadians in distress and shouting 'Bon jour mon ami!'.
I slept on a cot under a garage tent that was open on both ends. It creaked and rustled in the breeze. As I drifted off to sleep, I heard something rustling a little more intently not far from my head. I looked around the corner of the stack of cots to see the sillhouette of a coatimundi sticking his head into a plastic bin of backpacks filled with food for migrants.
In the morning, I awoke before sunrise. Xylem was making coffee in the trailer. I wandered down the path to the "bathroom", which is neither a room, nor a bath. It is a semi-secluded spot with tarps strung from the trees and about a dozen 5 gallon buckets, one of which has a snap-on toilet seat. There is also a bucket with toilet paper, baby wipes, and hand sanitizer. Another holds leaves and soil for sprinkling on the finished product. I walked back to the kitchen area and washed my hands out of a blue 'aquatainer'. The aquatainers are filled every other day up at one of the neighbors' well. There is also a freezer in a shed which is used to freeze bottles of water and keep in a large cooler with perishable foods.
I had a stale croissant with my coffee. I slathered my vulnerable bits with sunscreen and filled my camelback. At about 6:30 a.m., we headed off in the red truck to the next trail. On the trails, we looked for fresh footprints and trash. The trash is mostly water bottles, electrolyte bottles, and RedBull cans. The coyotes give RedBull to the people lagging in the back. This may speed them up for an hour or so, but then I imagine they must crash hard from the caffeine, sugar and futher dehydration. Many are left behind by their group because they can't walk fast enough due to blisters and/or fatigue. We encountered a migrant limping alongside Arivaca Rd. on the way out to camp. He had been lost for 7 days. He was a fit young man, so he had survived, but he wanted us to call Border Patrol. He was giving up.
Even if you find a road to surrender yourself to the tender mercies of the two-week veterans of BP, they may not stop for you if they think you are beyond help... since you're not a threat, you are not worthy of their attention. If you can't find a road, you may try to find some shade, sit down and wait to die, as was Margarita when a NMD patrol found her. Elsewhere, in Ironwood, a woman who had been left behind was found dead. Even so, people were relieved that she was found before the coyotes and vultures got to her. A gruesome incident from the previous year is recounted often. A woman died in her son's arms. Her son made it home and sent his grandfather, the girl's father, to look for her body. When he found her, she had no face. He only identified her by a ring on her finger, which was found with her arm 50 yards away.
At times I could forget these haunting facts and enjoy a nice, stinkin' hot walk in nature. But around every corner was a reminder or 50 that I was far from alone out there. They estimate that about 1200 - 1500 people cross the border every day, and it takes 3-4 days to get to Tucson, so there could be as many as 6000 people in the desert on a busy night. It is eerie to be walking and know that when you shout out, there *are* people who can hear you, but choose not to respond. And yet, there is only the sound of the breeze if you are lucky enough to have one, military jets headed for Iraq, and the occasional cow, suffering in the heat, trying to find something edible amongst the cactus and thorns.
The migrants often fill their bottles with cattle water. The water sits in damm/ned pools called 'tanks' When the water dries up, they are muddy at the bottom and cows get stuck. They die there because it is impossible to bring a tractor into the rugged terrain. One can only hope that the farmer finds them and shoots them in the head so they die quickly. But they then rot there, and when the rains come, the pool fills up and covers the carcasses. Drinking this water causes vomiting and diarrhea.
By mid week the monsoons were giving us hints of what was to come. A couple of 5 minute storms instructed us in how to cover everything with tarps, and make sure our stuff was somewhere dry before we left on patrol. Then on the last patrol, it let loose. Three of us were walking on a trail that goes over the ridgetop of some low hills. We noticed thunder in the distance. We watched for lighting as we walked and counted the seconds between flash and rumble. 25... 19... 2. Geoff started running downhill and we both followed. Soon, fat drops of rain began to fall, faster and faster until we were all thoroughly soaked. The dust turned to mud. We walked along the wash in a downpour. It stopped for 10 minutes or so, but then opened up again. We made it back to camp and dried off, but the rain kept going, on and off, nearly all night. When the sun set, we could see all the lightning. There must have been thousands of flashes. 2 or 3 every second, some closer than others. The wind shook the tents and the garage tents creaked and groaned against their lashings. I stood under one of them and watched the show, imagining what it would be like to be out there with nothing to hide under. If Margarita had not been found, she would have been sitting on that hillside, with lightning striking all around, soaked to the bone, cold, shaking, miserable.
Margarita was lucky. We brought her back to the camp and called 911. BORSTAR, the search and rescue arm of BP came out and took her in his truck to the Arivaca Fire Dept. where an ambulance was waiting for her. They loaded her inside and hooked her up to the equipment and a bag of IV fluids. Kate and I spoke with the EMT's and tried to advocate for her that she needed to go to the hospital. He thought she was lying. He thought she looked too good to have been out in the desert for 10 days. She can rest in Mexico just as well as at St. Mary's in Tucson, he said. I told him that there was nowhere for her to rest there. He questioned how I knew this. I said that I worked at the port before. Then she can go home he said. But she's from Guerrero, a 20+ hour bus ride away. Where is that? he asked... Guerrero, the State of Guerrero... my voice was rising. Kate gestured for me to settle down. I listened for a moment longer and then went back to the truck to wait. I told Cyril that it looked like they were going to hand her over to BP to be deported. He said that it should be reported that they considered her condition serious enough to give her IV fluids but not enough to send her to hospital. He walked over to where Kate was standing in the back of the ambulance and I momentarily lost control and wept. All that work, and we had merely handed her over to the bigotted green uniform waiting to make her into a 3 time loser for the benefit of Wackenhut shareholders. I felt awful. Cyril came back and tried to explain that we had no choice, that we couldn't do that thing that we all wanted so badly to do. I nodded. I understood, but the tears still threatened. Cyril went back over to Kate and returned shortly. Good news, they were going to call the helicopter afterall. The relief was there, but I was exhausted and couldn't/shouldn't shout out with joy. Such a small victory in an ocean of misery. She would be safe for a little while longer, and maybe she would be allowed to go on her way after being treated, but maybe not.
I can't think of a good way to end this, because it just keeps going. I left Sunday morning and slept for 12 hours. But 10 more volunteers went out to camp and continue to search, assist, and be horrified at what they see. ]]>
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