One RNC Protester's Experience [Long, but necessary reading]


Read it and ask yourself if this is the America you want.

Caroline is the daughter of a friend of mine. She is entering her senior year at Stanford, but is from the East Coast. Before making her trip back to Stanford after the summer, she traveled to New York to peacefully protest the Republican Convention. What follows is her story.

Here are the things that strike me as hallmarks of this current Administration. [And it is my opinion that unless we make changes, and soon, we are going to keep sliding down this slippery slope...perhaps eventually to the dictatorship that George Bush has laughingly admitted would be easier for him.]

1. Shutting down dissension at any cost. Free Speech? What an archaic notion?
2. Dissembling and using the mainstream media as their willing tool in such deception.
3. Ignoring the rule of law if it is inconvenient or incompatible with their agenda.
4. Poor execution. These guys can ONLY master the message When it comes down to handling the physical results of their philosophical obsessions, they're no better equipped than they are in Iraq!

Here is Caroline's story, in her own words:

So as many of you know I was at the recent protests in NYC against the Republican National Convention, against the Bush regime, against US empire and violence at home and abroad, and in support of the better world we know is possible.  If yall want more info on the amazing resistance that took place in New York during the convention, check out www.indymedia.org.  I would love to share more stories with in person, but I am writing this email primarily to tell you about my arrest, and the 48 hours I spent in jail for a violation (the legal equivalent of running a red light or a parking ticket).  For a nonviolent charge, it is illegal to be held for over 24 hours.  I have been trying to write something, anything about this horrific, empowering, enraging, demeaning experience for the week since I was released, but the numbness in my chest and my still not-healed wrist have made it difficult.  But this morning I ate chocolate cayenne cake, and went for a walk in the beautiful sunny bridge between summer and fall, and I think I am ready to share.
 
I was arrested around 7:30 on Tuesday evening, August 31.  Around 1500 people were arrested that afternoon-evening, with 2000 in total arrested during the Convention, more than any other national convention ever, even the DNC of 1968.  The lawyers working with those of us arrested have advised that we dont share all the details of the arrest for legal purposes (as I have still not been arraigned: ie, far from a trial, I have not even had the opportunity to see a judge and plead guilty or not guilty...something which is legally supposed to happen within 24 hours of being arrested).  But let these two facts speak for themselves: I was arrested for peacefully dancing and conga lining and singing and chanting on a sidewalk.  After an hour and a half of being penned in on a sidewalk corner with about 20 amazing beautiful souls, unable to get a clear answer as to whether we were being detained or not, we were finally told we were free to leave.  As we headed toward the gap in the barricades that had been signalled as an exit, the first man to reach that space was put into a chokehold by several of the officers watching over us, and was slammed to the ground and smothered with an american flag that one of our group had with him.  These officers then proceeded to handcuff all of us.
 
I was dragged to the bus ( a show of noncooperation with the illegitimate power structure that arrested me for excersing my freedom of speech) in plastic handcuffs that had been vindicatively tightened to the point of numbness in my fingers.  Many activists experienced similar pain.  Perhaps 30 of us were on that bus for about four hours, including two women under the age of 16 and two more under the age of 18.  Only after at least two hours of tears in the eye, politely letting the officers know that our wrists hurt did one of the officers decide to cut off some of our handcuffs (mine included) and recuff us, ever so slightly looser.  I still cannot feel parts of my right wrist.  A doctor told me yesterday that I have some nerve damage, that the injured nerves should hopefully grow back in a month or so. But at that moment, on that bus,  I started to think about something that haunted me for the next two days I was in police custody and still wont leave my mind.  How can someone look into the eyes of someone being hurt, of someone crying with pain, of someone whose face is twisted in agony, and do nothing?  Not even a simple act of relief that is well within his or her power.  Just to stare in the face of pain and betray no emotion. To be a robot, to let all of his or her humanity disappear.  I dont understand.  I dont think I ever will. 
 
From the bus, we were taken to Pier 57 (a former bus depot).  We were searched and our handcuffs were removed.  The bandanna tied around my neck was taken as "arrest evidence."  (There is an anti-mask law in NY that says that three people similarly masked is illegal.  Seeing as I was the only one with a bandanna in my arrest group and it was around my neck, not my face, who knows what they'll do with that handy bit of "evidence.")  The Pier has been named Guantanamo on the Hudson.  While I know this is overstatement, the conditions in which I spent the next 20 hours were terrible and inhuman.  I looked at the guards outside our cells (mainly people of color throughout this whole experience), similarly exhausted and caged in a system that oppresses them as well, yet the majority of these guards maintained their attitudes of vengeful cruelty.  The cells were about 26 feet by 26 feet, I was told by a fellow detainee.  The front third of the cell was fenced off, and that was where two portapotties were located.  We had to yell to the guards for permission to use the bathrooms.  They would often pretend not to hear us or simply deny us the "privilege" of toilets.  The cells were made of chainlink fence about 20 feet high, topped with barbed wire.  Inside, there were benches, 100+ people (separated by sex), and motor oil covered floors.  The walls were insulated with asbestos.  The fluorescent lights flickered above us as we tried to find some rest on the cold, toxic cement ground.  In some cells, a friend of mine told me when I saw her later in other facilities, there wasnt even enough space for everyone to lie down on that poisionous floor.  We were moved in small groups into different cells as often as possible, in an attempt to isolate us and break any bonds that were beginning to be formed.  But in every cell, we kept singing and making connections and supporting each other.  The solidarity I felt with the women I met in jail was amazing.  Our community that survived even in such poisonous, demeaning, isolating circumstances continues to inspire me.
 
It was at this point that I began to disassociate from my body, because there was nothing I could do to care for it.  Occasionally the guards would thrust white bread with a piece of bologna or american cheese through the bars. After about 24 hours, I couldnt even eat that, my body rejecting any attempt at sustenance.  For 48 hours, I ate two sandwiches, didnt sleep more than a few half hour long catnaps, saw no darkness, had an injury that I couldnt care for, and I was perhaps in better physical condition than many other women.  Medical demands went unheard, people were denied their medication, severe injuries went untreated for hours and hours.  How do you ground, root yourself in your own strength when the connections between your body and mind have been severed, just so you can get through the next hours?   
 
In the cell I arrived in around 6 in the morning, where I was to spend the next 12 hours, I connected with four other women who had also chosen to withhold their names as a sign of noncooperation.  I did not give my name for the first 24 hours I was held, participating in a practice called Jail Solidarity.  I demanded to speak with a lawyer before answering any questions, as a way of using anonymity to protect activists (such as people of color, queer or transgender people, organizers) who would be targeted with higher charges or worse conditions.  From the time I entered this cell, women would be taken out in groups of five or six, and taken on to the next step of this insufferably bureaucratic process.  We would cheer them on, raise our fists in support as we saw men from other cells and women from our own led away handcuffed but strong. 
 
Eventually, probably around 4 pm, they had taken all of the women out of our cell except myself, two other "Jane Does" (the name given to those of us who withhold our names) and a 17 year old woman, Annie.  There are no other women in the entire facility and the four of us begin to worry, to feel the power of their intimidation tactics pressing down on us.  I truly believe that we were singled out because of our decision to not cooperate up to this point.  The guards outside tell us that our paperwork has been lost, but then when asked at subsequent intervals proceed to ignore or threaten us.  These guards are then changed every few minutes, so they can "honestly" tell us that they have no idea why we are still there, that no one is accountable.  Men who entered the facility long after us are beginning to be led out.  We shout to them that we are the only women left in the entire facility.  They shout their support and promise to talk to the outside legal support team when they are finally given access to a phone.  Soon all the men are gone as well.  Carpets are unrolled over the ground of all the cells.  When the four of us are led into a cell with a carpet, we are told to make sure that we dont get their carpets filthy.  Journalists are then led into the facility to photograph the newly carpeted cells, no evidence of the oily floors remaining.  I wonder how the media reconciles the four of us, grimy and black with oil, with the fresh clean carpeted cells. 
 
The two hours I spent with these women, alone in a facility with at least a hundred cops, not knowing if anyone on the outside knew where we were, were the darkest i spent.  Around 6, an officer comes in and tells us that he is going to handcuff and take the three of us Jane Does, but that Annie's paperwork is still not sorted out.  We refuse to leave one of us behind, alone and without support, surrounded by cops. This officer then threatens us with violence and beating to get us out, when we remain strong and holding on to each other, he begins to swear and tells us that we have lost our opportunity, that we are going to stay there forever.  When he leaves our cell, the four of us panic.  We are at the complete mercy of these cops who are pissed off and overworked.  We are the only possible objects of their anger and there is nothing stopping them from loosing all of their power and rage on us.  I have never been so terrified in my life.  Five minutes later, the same officer comes in and tells us he will take all four of us.  Sighs of relief, but its not over.
 
We are led to another area and searched more thoroughly, as we were about to be taken to Central Booking.  The officers finished searching me before the other three, re-handcuffed me and began to lead me away from the door.  I asked repeatedly if my friends were going to be joining me, dragging my heels so they would at least see where i was being led.  The only response I got was a shove, and "I know you can walk faster than that."  Again, and again, I asked, "Will my friends be coming?  Will my friends be coming?"  I got a shrug in response and was pushed into a cell by myself, out of view of the search area and with no idea what was going on or where the other three women I was with were.   I began to sob, thinking that all the strength we had shown in getting Annie to leave with us had come to nothing, that I was alone and powerless, at the mercy of the monstrous police state that kills and disappears people all over the world.  I tried to draw on whatever inner strength I had left, breathing deeply, telling myself that I was powerful too, that that empty oil covered cage was too ugly for my beautiful tears.  I almost managed to stop crying.  About ten minutes later, an officer came in the cell and led me back to my friends.  Supposedly, after I had been taken by myself, the officers with the three other women were confused, asking each other where I was and whether I had run away and what was going.  Perhaps i was given ten minutes in "solitary" because of disorganization, lack of communication.  Perhaps it was an elaborate scheme of psychological manipulation and intimidation, a way of "breaking" me.  Throughout the time I was held, I saw many examples of both disorganization, the system overflowing and unable to deal with the massive amount of people arrested, and the horror and violence of a system intentionally designed to dehumanize, isolate, and terrify people.
 
We were led to an official police bus, complete with cages, with about 15 men already aboard.  Seeing the outside world for the first time in 24 hours reenergized me with love and support.  Everywhere we looked people yelled in support, were chanting, flashed us peace signs and big smiles.  We sang "Solidarity Forever" all the way into Central Booking.  At Central Booking, we were led through more paperwork, threatened several times for still refusing to give our names, and finally led to a cell designed for 50 people in which there were over 100 women, all with knees tucked in tightly for lack of space.  We were finally (after over 24 hours) given access to a phone, and talked to the lawyers dealing with those of doing Jail Solidarity.  We learned that only 20 people were withholding their names, and that connections to those we would be protecting with our anonymity were not confirmed.  The three of us decided to give our names to the police, feeling we could end on a victory, as our demand of speaking with a lawyer had been met.  Jail Solidarity also works to clog up the system and drain resources, as people who have not given their names cannot be released and thus have more bargaining power.  We also felt that the NYPD had done that themselves by arresting so many people completely ILLEGALLY, for doing absolutely nothing.  One cop in Central Booking even told us that we had succeeded in breaking the system.  (There were many folks in jail that had not even been involved in the demonstrations.  I met one woman who was a German tourist who had just been standing on the sidewalk when a march walked by and was then detained for about 48 hours). 
 
We were shuttled around and fingerprinted and photographed and moved from cell to cell within Central Booking for the next 24 hours.  Even though I gave my name around 8 pm on Wednesday, I couldnt get any one to write it down on my paperwork until 2pm the following day.  I continued to be a target for abuse, and one of the last to be moved from every cell until that time, because everyone dealing with my paperwork knew I had chosen to not cooperate.  As I was moved from cell to cell with small groups, I got to know probably most of the women who had been arrested on Tuesday night.  Instead of isolating me, as this tactic is designed to do, it broadened my connections to a community that I will now be able to draw on the strength and support of wherever I am.  We taught each other songs and radical cheers, shared stories, demanded attention for medical needs that were not getting met, checked up on each other when someone looked near to breaking, cuddled to try and keep away the cold numb death of the concrete floors (though at least in Central Booking they were not covered in oil...did it matter at this point?  every pore of my body had absorbed the poison.)
 
Around 7:30 on Thursday evening I was released, with an arraignment date in October.  A woman I had been arrested with, who I stayed with for most of the past 48 hours, and I were greeted by a man with daisies in his hair and led into the dusk, met by hundreds of people cheering in support.  We learned that people had been outside the jail and the pier 24 hours a day since we had been arrested, demanding our release.  I was treated by a medic who massaged my still numb wrists, gave me a hug and let me cry into her shoulder at the beauty of freedom. 
 
Since then I have been trying to scrub myself clean of the oily poison that covered me for over two days, to keep up with my legal status and the civil suits being filed against the city because of the awful conditions and the fact that we were illegally held for longer than 24 hours, to reassociate with my body, whose needs I had to ignore for two days because there were no ways to get them met, to melt the protective numbness around my heart so I can cry and heal and process what I learned and experienced.  Rage fills me and I am even more strengthened in my convictions to fight against the tyranny and fascism of the global police state that keeps us all in a constant state of fear and oppression and encarceration.  I send out my love and solidarity to all of those imprisoned all over the world, to those who are disappeared, to those that are the victims of government violence, to those who dont get to see the sunlight or the faces of those they love for much longer than 48 hours. 
 
There are so many other stories to share, so many things I have not communicated as clearly as I would like to, but this is an email and I need for you all to know what happened, to get my story out there, though it is a work in progress.  I am off to an accupuncture appointment now, so that perhaps some life can be pricked back into my wrist, so that dams of this trauma can be lifted and I can feel myself and share my joy and rage in words again.  I invite you to share this story, if you would like to, to let my voice be one of many that speaks against the brutality of the system they cage us in.  I am angry and empowered.  I have seen into the eye of the beast more deeply than ever before and it was terrifying and awful, but I stared back, with the strength of millions all around me.  I will be on the streets again.  And, if necessary, I will be in jail again.
In love and solidarity, struggle and rage, hope and healing,
caroline mari 
 
deep down inside of me
i've got a fire going on
deep down inside of me
i've got a fire going on
and part of me
wants to sing about the light
and part of me
wants to cry, cry, cry, cry, cry

Posted: Thu - September 16, 2004 at 05:31 PM       EmailFeedback

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