Just When You Think You Know It All... or diving deep and surfacing

In the struggle for social justice and other progressive issues many choose to
defy the laws of the State in acts of civil disobedience.  This has been a
method used by nonviolent protesters for many years.  It provides the
opportunity to gain personal experience and empowerment, to strengthen support
structures and our collective processes, and to educate the wider community
about the issues.

With nonviolent training it is emphasised that activists have a responsibility
to themselves, to their support groups and to the movement to be aware of the
implications of their actions.  The risks are very well documented but no
amount of role-playing or work-shopping can prepare you for the utter despair
you feel when the time comes and the cell door clangs SHUT.

My experiences in a recent incarceration may be helpful to other activists who
find themselves in similar situations.  It began with a protest action against
the visit of the USS New Jersey to Hobart in 1988.  I was charged with
trespass and lighting distress flares when not in distress.

There were many court appearances which meant that the issue of nuclear
warships, military spending etc. could be kept in the media even though the
ships weren't actually in port.  As I became more familiar with the courtroom
procedures I found they became less intimidating.  At my first appearance I
thought I couldn't even speak.  My mouth suddenly felt like sandpaper and I
was too terrified to ask for a drink of water.  To my astonishment when I
heard the tape recording of the proceedings I couldn't believe I had said all
the things I did and what's more I sounded as though I really meant them which
of course I did.  The distress flare case is subject to appeal and I was fined
$180 or five days jail for trespass.

With one notable exception I found the magistrates very helpful.  I was
allowed to make lengthy and detailed statements and they seemed concerned that
as I was always defending myself I was quite clear about the procedure.  I was
also mindful that I convey the impression that whilst I did not agree with
their system, I did respect their humanity.  The media was always present.  I
found them quite sympathetic if not on side, so maybe the magistrates were
just being cautious.

A warrant was issued for non-payment of my fine some two years after the
original offence.  Because of good relations with the local constabulary a
mutually convenient time was arranged for me to present myself at the police
station. I was able to organise a Press Release, advise my friends, and find
out as much as I could on just what I was likely to expect in jail.

The processing at the police station included a thorough search of my personal
effects including toiletries, books and radio.  It was helpful to know the
local policeman who was doing all this and to know that he was not going to be
a problem. As he counted my cash I knew he would have been very pleased to
find there was enough to pay the fine.  I had a US $20 note and there was much
discussion about the current exchange rate and it did occur to me that just
maybe I wasn't going to jail after all. But it wasn't enough and the final
security precautions were to remove all jewellery - eleven silver (tin
actually) rings, two feminist neckbands, hair combs and my glasses, just in
case I slashed my wrists with the lenses.

I then had to wait in the holding cells, minus my boots for about an hour. 
This was not my first time for this process so I was prepared for the grot. 
My initial rather scary experience was cheered enormously by seeing that some
'criminal' had scrawled PEACE on the wall.  When I left the holding cells the
policeman wished me luck.

I had another piece of good fortune to be driven to the jail by a policeman I
knew through my job.  Living is a small community does have some advantages. 
By the time we'd reached the jail, the accompanying policewoman looked as
though she'd made the right choice about coming to work that day or maybe she
had just been enjoying the view of Mt. Wellington covered in snow.

The reception at the jail was very friendly.  There were lots of flowers and
it all seemed bright and cheery as were the women prison officers.  I was
measured and weighed (they don't do strip searches at Risdon but I am sure
that is not the case in other prisons). I then showered and changed into
prison clothes which weren't too dreadful - T-shirt, windcheater, track suit
pants and sneakers.  I was allowed to keep my own knickers, my watch and all
of my books, papers, radio and tapes.  Part of that processing included a
psychiatric self-assessment with questions like "Have you ever thought of
suicide?" and "Have you a problem with self esteem?".  No difficulties with
these I thought.

In my experience with peace and justice issues I was familiar with the horror
stories of intimidation, bashings and torture that have been the experiences
of fellow activists.  I knew that none of these things would happen to me.  I
was a middle class white activist with the luxury of being able to choose
whether to pay the fine or do the jail term.  I knew that I would not have my
finger and toe nails removed.  I knew that I would come out in a few days to
my secure Public Service job, my friends and my nice house and garden.

So why for the next twenty-four hours could I not stop sobbing?  I felt
utterly destroyed.  Waves of desolation swept over me to the amazement of
myself, the other prisoners and the prison officers.

When I told people about my decision to go to jail, a few perceptive souls
commented on my bravery.  Then I was able rationalise that bravery involves a
personal risk and I didn't consider jail for me was going to be such a 'big
deal'.  Now this 'no big deal' was suddenly terrifying and desperately lonely.
I felt totally powerless and reduced to a sobbing imbecile.

I desperately wanted to be anywhere else, preferably somewhere familiar doing
terribly significant and important things and with my beautiful friends all
around me.

That afternoon the women were holding a birthday party for one of the other
seven prisoners.  I was devastated that it seemed so joyful.  The birthday
'girl' was a lifer with six more YEARS to serve which made me feel ashamed at
my despair.  A prison officer whom I knew from an RSI support group kept
telling me that I wasn't a 'common criminal' - I was a political prisoner. 
This didn't help either as I watched the sunset light up the bars of my cell -
specially when the beautiful pink glow didn't darken and I found it was a
security light.

Needless to say the first night was the worst.  The cell was freezing and when
the heating came on it sounded like a jumbo jet aborting take off.  The
blankets seemed to weigh a couple of tonnes compared to my doona.  The bed
made an incredible clanging noise every time I moved, specially when I tried
to stop the huge three person tent sized nightie from strangling me and to
turn over without falling off the incredibly narrow mattress.

The next morning I explained my reasons for being on a hunger strike and was
told that if I got sick I would end up in the prison hospital.  The
implications of this did not sink in until one of the women spoke of her
experiences there.  She had met a charming bloke up there and found he was in
fact Dr. Bowie.  This 'charmer' had murdered a woman involving drugs and rape.
Also in the hospital was Rorie Thompson who'd murdered his wife after
subjecting her to years of physical and emotional violence.  I knew these
cases well having been involved with the women's refuge but now these men were
physically near to me.  The horror of this sent me off to the broom cupboard
to dissolve into yet another flood of tears.

I had my first visitor during the second afternoon and messages of support
came from other activists.  This was the BIG BREAKTHROUGH.  Only then was I
able to get things into perspective.

My concern about being able to succeed with the hunger strike was a non-event.
The first days were such a traumatic experience that food was not a priority. 
This is no reflection on the quality of the meals which were vastly superior
to any I've experienced on Peace Camps.

The remaining few days were filled with interesting and delightful experiences
such as building a duck pond for Donald Duck and Daisy Drake (I never did sort
that one out) and their babies when they hatch in a few weeks to experience
the pleasures of deep sea diving - well at least twelve inches - and the black
kitten Kea who finally on my last day acknowledging my presence with the
briefest brush with her tail.

I can now see that many factors were in my favour such as the enormous support
of the women prisoners and officers and getting wonderfully creative messages
from other activists.  I had just not anticipated the trauma of it all.

Being separated so completely from my friends was distressing enough but I had
not expected to feel my initial communication isolation from the other women
prisoners. I was an intruder into their world - this was their home and I had
received no invitation from them. I was unsure of my welcome. I did not know
whether they wanted to hear news from outside or if it would make them
unhappy.  I was suddenly faced with failing in one of my most deeply felt
certitudes - that of the ability of women to communicate in their own special
way.

I was not prepared for my own doubts about the effectiveness of my political
actions.  I was not prepared for feelings of foolishness, inadequacy and lack
of self worth as a feminist and activist and my own thoughts of a million
other ways of achieving our aims - needless to say all things I thought I was
OK about.

I am aware now that one unusual aspect of my experience was that as an
activist I was not with five of fifty other people.  This would no doubt have
prevented many of the problems I encountered.  The advantage of being on my
own was the opportunity for more personal interaction with the other women
than may not otherwise have been the case.

I was deeply touched by the whole experience.  In particular the mutual
support, the humour, the caring for each other shown by both the women
prisoners and the officers was and I hope will remain an inspiration to me. 
But now back in the not-so-real world I have to attend to a shopping list for
the women including SAO biscuits, tinned oysters, some bubble bath, a flat to
find for one soon to be released and a letter campaign to organise for the
release of the two lifers.

Liz Denham