Prison Radio: Solidarity With Prairieland Defendants! Release Them NOW! ICE is the Crime not the People’s Fighters! (Interviews)

Texas changed us.

After months of phone calls, commentaries, and conversations we made the trip to Cleburne, Texas and its infamous Johnson County Corrections Facility.

We met at the jail with Champagne Song, Maricela Rueda, and Meagan Morris. During an intense week we also spoke with or shared video visits with Rowan Gibson, Autumn Hill, and very briefly, Rebecca Morgan. Listen to their voices.

Our visit was eye opening. Engaging with their support community, friends, and families was a lesson on the impact of state terror. They have been targeted as a community, tried collectively on terrorism charges, given 15-100 year sentences and made an example by the state. We realized how much the Prison Radio life line means to these anti-ICE activists who are warm, engaging, and courageous.

What we experienced was sobering. It was scary. Fascism is designed to threaten the fabric of folks’ community. Yet, we were humbled by the love, solidarity and commitment we witnessed among the Prairieland defendants, family members, friends and supporters.

Jo arrived from our office in San Francisco and Jennifer flew in from State College, Pennsylvania. Co-workers used to Zoom, we met for the first time in person at the ACE car rental agency at the Dallas airport. Our car was essential to navigate the long stretches of tangled highways and sprawl that connected the distances we traversed daily between Dallas, Fort Worth, Cleburne and Alvarado. Distances in Texas can be a huge barrier to connection.

Fear and surveillance

We didn’t take pictures. And some people weren’t comfortable using their real names. We posed a question to a group of friends: “Are you scared?” The answer came quickly, “Always.” And, “We’re all on a list. We know they can pick us up at any time.” Followed with, “What we are experiencing is state terror.”

Solidarity despite the fear

Meetings were surrounded by caution, security, and waves of grief. Yet, we were treated warmly. We shared meals. Some invited us into their home – a home that had been batter rammed by police and raided. We saw the damage done to the house but what was less visible was the damage done to their well-being and sense of safety. Having been outed as “The Big Gay House” in a state which is notorious for anti-trans violence, the community is still scared. Many admitted they were depressed. Or had “survivor’s guilt.” Some were suffering from PTSD. Several had lost their jobs. Of course, there is a tremendous financial strain when supporting incarcerated people. One woman mentioned that the first month after her loved ones were incarcerated her phone bill was $2,000!

Meeting our correspondents

At the Johnson County jail we waited in anticipation for them to be brought down to the visiting corridor. This happened one by one, at separate times. Even though they are housed in the same facility, most have separation orders, and cannot be in the same part of the facility at the same time. Rowan is housed in a medical isolation cell with two cooperating witnesses, a casual and calculated cruelty.

They arrived in chains. A guard escorted our correspondents to the visiting corridor keeping hands on them the entire time. Once they were deposited inside the visiting room, the heavy metal door locked behind them. Only then could they turn around and present their handcuffed wrists through the slat in the wall to be un-cuffed.

It must have been odd for them to meet us in the flesh after months of speaking over the phone and exchanging written messages. The strain of jail, of being separated from loved ones, the worry, the fear, the indignation over their circumstances was evident. Yet even under unimaginably tough circumstances they were incredibly gracious. There were smiles when they met us. We shared a few laughs. Each one thanked us with heartfelt sincerity for visiting. Our time with them was sobering and meaningful. The hardest part of the visit was having to leave them there.

Johnson County Jail

All jails are cruel and capricious. Even though we carefully scheduled our visits in advance, twice we were asked by the front desk clerk to go away and come back later.

Visits are conducted behind thick glass barriers with poor-quality wall phones on the cinderblock wall. Meagan told us that picking up the phone sometimes causes an electric shock, due to improper grounding. Visitors are packed in a small hallway, there is no semblance of privacy.

Regular visits in Johnson County Jail are just 20 minutes each! Only two a week. That’s it. 20 minute increments, twice a week, for family, friends, and community. We managed to get “special visits” which are 40 minutes in length. Each prisoner is granted only one special visit per month. We witnessed several times when people were turned away at the front desk because they didn’t know how to navigate the complicated online visitation portal. One woman was turned away because she failed to register on the same request form as her elderly father and was forced to wait beyond the metal detector while he entered the visiting room alone in a wheelchair.

Johnson County Jail sits about 12 miles down the road from the Prairieland ICE facility. Our correspondents have been sentenced to 100, 70, 50, 30, and 15 years federal prison time, and are now awaiting state prosecutions.

Texas goes Blue

What a week to visit Texas! We were sitting around a table with folks in the Prairieland support community when the election results came in. Most grew up in Texas and had never seen a state government that wasn’t deep red. The blue tsunami left them heartened, but focused. One person summed up the prevailing sentiment: “Ok, but now we have to prepare for the second fight – making the democrats do what they said.” There was hope sprinkled amidst pragmatism.

With Love, Not Phear,