“I want you…,” part two

By Skip Schiel, written on June 16, 2005

The Cambridge police headquarters sits squarely in Central Square. I’ve walked and biked by it on uncountable occasions, once standing vigil supporting those arrested during civil disobedience (higher obedience) against South African apartheid in the late 1980s. What’s life like inside, especially for those not wearing official uniforms and carrying state-sanctioned weapons?

The officers treated us politely and, I felt, with respect. This was not Abu Graib or Guantanamo, not yet, not for us. After my request and complaint, they removed my cuffs. An officer, Maureen, sat with me, ostensibly guarding me, but engaging me in lively conversation. Not so much about why I was there, the what and why of our experience, but more preliminary conversation: what we each watch on TV (she watches most of the public television political shows), police duty (every day is different), my craft (photography), and other elements of plain talk which in some circumstances could lead to friendship. I didn’t try to push my line or quiz her about her role in maintaining state power. For later, perhaps.

A long wait. The officers took us one at a time into another office for booking. I lined up for a mug shot. They took my fingerprints, using a new digital video system that I suppose can magically compare my fingers with millions of others accused of crimes. Is this the new form of global community? "Now I have to ask you some questions," stated the tall shorthaired (most police and military wear their hair close cropped like mine) man behind the thick Plexiglas. And the expected questions detailing my outward life, even to my eye color which I continually forget. Nothing, of course, about who I truly am, my history and my destiny.

During this procedure I bantered with my arrested colleague, Joe, good to be with Joe and not alone. Imagine alone: no friends, no family, no support community. New to the country, of dark skin, can’t speak the language fully. Easy to disappear. But Joe and Jamie and Patrick and Mathew and Caroline and Kelli have privilege, not all from the color of our skin (one was black) or gender (three were female). Later I thought of the Lakota Sioux at Wounded Knee, cold, alone in an alien culture while in their homeland, threatened, driven, finally executed, a part of national history—genocide—that curiously remains hidden. This was just one of the chronologies percolating thru me during my 4 hour police and court experience.

Genocidal history does not remain hidden from me or many of my compatriots. Not only does Wounded Knee live within me but it is a prime motivator for who I am and what I aspire to. It is the spine of my mission: to witness to suffering and injustice, to offer voice to those oppressed and silenced, to walk the talk of freedom and democracy and justice. All this surfaces as I’m about to sit alone in a cell awaiting my fate.

After booking—"What happens next?" I asked Maureen—"They’ll hold you here awhile then take you to the Cambridge District Courthouse for arraignment, then probably you can go home. Maybe after paying bail."

I’d been allowed one phone call, as part of the Miranda decision (Anything you say can be held against you, you have the right to remain silent, you can have a lawyer present during interrogation, and you can make one phone call.). I left a message for Louise about what I expected. Just hearing her soft peaceful centered voice on the answering machine reassured me that probably I will not disappear into the great maw of the so-called “criminal justice system,” eventually joining the 2.1 million human beings now locked up.

After booking, police led Joe and me into the male block, each to our own cell, side by side. The echoing was so dominating I could barely understand Joe. I sat in silence, until I considered that this is a fine time to sing. Just like the Freedom Fighters of the Civil Rights Movement. Let's see if Joe and I can share some songs. First: "O freedom, O freedom, O freedom over me and before I'd be a slave I'll be buried in my grave and go home to my lord and be free." I added, "no more police, no more army, no more oppression over me." Joe chimed in, sometimes whistling.

Next: "This land is your land, this land is my land," and the verse, "No one living can ever stop us, no one living can make us turn back, as we go walking that freedom highway" was particularly evocative. Did Woody Guthrie, the song's author, ever sit in jail writing his songs?

Ending with "Amazing Grace," because this is what happens when hurting, when suffering, while bearing witness—amazing grace just flows thru you, nourishing, sustaining, enlivening. I was joyous.

OK, but now it's getting boring. I don't know how long we'll be here. Guards are escorting two new prisoners to their cells, two young men I don't recognize. A black women waves to me from outside our block as she sits in the waiting area awaiting booking. Who is she, part of the resistance to the military?

I meditate, emptying my mind, I do yoga, energizing my body, I remember many people I've heard about or met who've been incarcerated for reasons of conscience. Mordechai Vanunu, the Israeli bellringer who warned the world about Israel's nuclear weapons—prison for 18 years, 12 in solitary. I interviewed and photographed him when in Israel recently, trying to broadcast his story thru my craft. Martin Luther King, Jr, the letter from the Birmingham jail, his message chiding white ministers for talking the good talk while not acting, refusing to enact the social gospel. Dorothy Day, in the 1950s, opposing nuclear bomb drills, thinking this is not the way to protect. End war, ban weapons is a better alternative. And Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull of the Lakota, not complying with Army mandates to move to reservation prisons on the Plains, both murdered in jail, Crazy Horse by the hands of fellow American Indians.

Good company here in the Cambridge City Jail, not feeling so alone anymore.

2 or so hours of this, and finally they lead us into another paddy wagon for transport across town to the Middlesex District Courthouse for arraignment. What do we do and say, how do we act, who are my comrades now, will louise be there, others of our group?

We are seven, the judge jokingly referred to us as the Cambridge Seven. Patrick wears desert camouflage with a blood-like substance staining his clothing. He is tall and erect, with a military-like bearing. When I first saw him I imagined him to be an Iraq war vet. Mathew Osborn, thin and short with a small beard, when I first  saw him in the police station wore a long white gown, looking Muslim. His T-shirt, face, and hair are all stained with red liquid. Caroline  Arpe also has red liquid as does Kelli. They are all part of the Boston Direct Action Project. They stage theatrical actions in opposition to oppressive governmental policies. At the Cambridge Common they wore signs such as "Killed by US troops," "No more birthdays for me" and "Happy bloody birthday." Some wore birthday hats and blew noisemakers. The two men were arrested after they'd climbed a fence into the main arena, were forced out, and returned. Their persistence and courage earned them arrest. They are charged with disturbing the peace, a jailable offence. Joe, Jaime and I are accused of unlawful assembly, a fineable offence.

Later: the arraignment, the continuance, media coverage, another court appearance, the Cambridge City Council hearing.

All text and photos copyright Skip Schiel, 2005, made on June 14, 2005 on Cambridge Common

The Direct Action Project, with photos:

http://bostondirectactionproject.blogspot.com/

“Antiwar Protesters Plan to Escalate—'Direct Action' Seen as Next Step If War Begins,” (Joe Gerson quoted in this 2 year old article) March 15, 2003 by the Washington Post by Evelyn Nieves:

http://www.commondreams.org/headlines03/0315-01.htm

For writing by Joe Gerson, contact him at JGerson@afsc.org

Part one of my story with photos:

http://teeksaphoto.org/RecentPhotos/ArmyCambridgeCommon/index.html