Letter from an Israeli Jail by Cynthia McKinney

Originally posted on freegaza.org on July 4. Link also has original audio message.

This is Cynthia McKinney and I'm speaking from an Israeli prison cellblock in Ramle. [I am one of] the Free Gaza 21, human rights activists currently imprisoned for trying to take medical supplies to Gaza, building supplies - and even crayons for children, I had a suitcase full of crayons for children. While we were on our way to Gaza the Israelis threatened to fire on our boat, but we did not turn around. The Israelis high-jacked and arrested us because we wanted to give crayons to the children in Gaza. We have been detained, and we want the people of the world to see how we have been treated just because we wanted to deliver humanitarian assistance to the people of Gaza.

At the outbreak of Israel's Operation ‘Cast Lead' [in December 2008], I boarded a Free Gaza boat with one day's notice and tried, as the US representative in a multi-national delegation, to deliver 3 tons of medical supplies to an already besieged and ravaged Gaza.

During Operation Cast Lead, U.S.-supplied F-16's rained hellfire on a trapped people. Ethnic cleansing became full scale outright genocide. U.S.-supplied white phosphorus, depleted uranium, robotic technology, DIME weapons, and cluster bombs - new weapons creating injuries never treated before by Jordanian and Norwegian doctors. I was later told by doctors who were there in Gaza during Israel's onslaught that Gaza had become Israel's veritable weapons testing laboratory, people used to test and improve the kill ratio of their weapons.

The world saw Israel's despicable violence thanks to al-Jazeera Arabic and Press TV that broadcast in English. I saw those broadcasts live and around the clock, not from the USA but from Lebanon, where my first attempt to get into Gaza had ended because the Israeli military rammed the boat I was on in international water ... It's a miracle that I'm even here to write about my second encounter with the Israeli military, again a humanitarian mission aborted by the Israeli military.

The Israeli authorities have tried to get us to confess that we committed a crime ... I am now known as Israeli prisoner number 88794. How can I be in prison for collecting crayons to kids?

Zionism has surely run out of its last legitimacy if this is what it does to people who believe so deeply in human rights for all that they put their own lives on the line for someone else's children. Israel is the fullest expression of Zionism, but if Israel fears for its security because Gaza's children have crayons then not only has Israel lost its last shred of legitimacy, but Israel must be declared a failed state.

I am facing deportation from the state that brought me here at gunpoint after commandeering our boat. I was brought to Israel against my will. I am being held in this prison because I had a dream that Gaza's children could color & paint, that Gaza's wounded could be healed, and that Gaza's bombed-out houses could be rebuilt.

But I've learned an interesting thing by being inside this prison. First of all, it's incredibly black: populated mostly by Ethiopians who also had a dream ... like my cellmates, one who is pregnant. They are all are in their twenties. They thought they were coming to the Holy Land. They had a dream that their lives would be better ... The once proud, never colonized Ethiopia [has been thrown into] the back pocket of the United States, and become a place of torture, rendition, and occupation. Ethiopians must free their country because superpower politics [have] become more important than human rights and self-determination.

My cellmates came to the Holy Land so they could be free from the exigencies of superpower politics. They committed no crime except to have a dream. They came to Israel because they thought that Israel held promise for them. Their journey to Israel through Sudan and Egypt was arduous. I can only imagine what it must have been like for them. And it wasn't cheap. Many of them represent their family's best collective efforts for self-fulfilment. They made their way to the United Nations High Commission for Refugees. They got their yellow paper of identification. They got their certificate for police protection. They are refugees from tragedy, and they made it to Israel only after they arrived Israel told them "there is no UN in Israel."

The police here have license to pick them up & suck them into the black hole of a farce for a justice system. These beautiful, industrious and proud women represent the hopes of entire families. The idea of Israel tricked them and the rest of us. In a widely propagandized slick marketing campaign, Israel represented itself as a place of refuge and safety for the world's first Jews and Christian. I too believed that marketing and failed to look deeper.

The truth is that Israel lied to the world. Israel lied to the families of these young women. Israel lied to the women themselves who are now trapped in Ramle's detention facility. And what are we to do? One of my cellmates cried today. She has been here for 6 months. As an American, crying with them is not enough. The policy of the United States must be better, and while we watch President Obama give 12.8 trillion dollars to the financial elite of the United States it ought now be clear that hope, change, and ‘yes we can' were powerfully presented images of dignity and self-fulfilment, individually and nationally, that besieged people everywhere truly believed in.

It was a slick marketing campaign as slickly put to the world and to the voters of America as was Israel's marketing to the world. It tricked all of us but, more tragically, these young women.

We must cast an informed vote about better candidates seeking to represent us. I have read and re-read Dr. Martin Luther King Junior's letter from a Birmingham jail. Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever imagined that I too would one day have to do so. It is clear that taxpayers in Europe and the U.S. have a lot to atone for, for what they've done to others around the world.

What an irony! My son begins his law school program without me because I am in prison, in my own way trying to do my best, again, for other people's children. Forgive me, my son. I guess I'm experiencing the harsh reality which is why people need dreams. [But] I'm lucky. I will leave this place. Has Israel become the place where dreams die?

Ask the people of Palestine. Ask the stream of black and Asian men whom I see being processed at Ramle. Ask the women on my cellblock. [Ask yourself:] what are you willing to do?

Let's change the world together & reclaim what we all need as human beings: Dignity. I appeal to the United Nations to get these women of Ramle, who have done nothing wrong other than to believe in Israel as the guardian of the Holy Land, resettled in safe homes. I appeal to the United State's Department of State to include the plight of detained UNHCR-certified refugees in the Israel country report in its annual human rights report. I appeal once again to President Obama to go to Gaza: send your special envoy, George Mitchell there, and to engage Hamas as the elected choice of the Palestinian people.

I dedicate this message to those who struggle to achieve a free Palestine, and to the women I've met at Ramle. This is Cynthia McKinney, July 2nd 2009, also known as Ramle prisoner number 88794.



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Cynthia McKinney is a former U.S. Congresswoman, Green Party presidential candidate, and an outspoken advocate for human rights and social justice. The first African-American woman to represent the state of Georgia, McKinney served six terms in the U.S. House of Representatives, from 1993-2003, and from 2005-2007. She was arrested and forcibly abducted to Israel while attempting to take humanitarian and reconstruction supplies to Gaza on June 30th. For more information, please see http://www.FreeGaza.org

Neda died with her eyes open. How many of us live with our eyes closed?

The title of this blog post is from twitter.

I have been watching what has been going on in Tehran on television and succumbed to signing onto Twitter to follow the voices of the protesters there for a few days now, unable (or is it unwilling?) to figure out what to say about it, if anything. That changed for me last night.

Last night was the first time I saw what has quickly become the most symbolic video from the protests, the murder of Neda (her name meaning 'Voice' in Farsi).

I warn viewers that this video will have a major impact on you one way or another.



[As I understand from the news I watched today, initially there is a doctor that is telling Neda not to be afraid and trying to figure out how to save her. Then he declares that she has died as her face is covered by her blood and all you can hear is her father wailing at the top of his lungs, crying out her name]

I couldn't stop crying last night. I couldn't even describe the intensity of what was going on inside of me, watching this young woman as the last thing she did was follow the camera with her eyes. Every time I even catch a glimpse of the video on CNN, the tears are unstoppable. And I don't know what to do with this amalgamation of selfish feelings of guilt and pain and helplessness. I can only write. I can only talk about it with the one or two people around me right now. I can only keep crying.

This is no longer about votes, it is no longer about Mousavi - but then again I don't know if it ever was about him. This is about Neda, it is about her Voice. In her death she has become the Voice of the protesters and everyone in Iran (and Iranians outside of the country) who is saying enough, whatever their 'enough' might be about. And there is wisdom, responsibility and accountability in the tweeter's words:

"Neda died with her eyes open. How many of us live with our eyes closed?"

Let's open our eyes, let's "see" what we deny "seeing" every day of our lives around us, not just in Iran but in every corner of this planet we call ours.

Taking stock of 2009 so far

The first half of 2009 has geared up to be a roller coaster ride, but in a good way.

My job became intensely more challenging at the beginning of the year because of the resignation of a staff leader. In the beginning this meant a lot longer hours, a lot of emotional and conflict management amongst the rest of the staff, and a lot of readjusting of schedules. It also meant throwing out the window the hope that I was going to start figuring out what else I wanted to do at UVM and Burlington other than my job.

The good part of that? Three-fold:
a) I think the experience built a lot of resiliency and character in some of the staff that would otherwise not have grown in the same ways. They learned a lot about themselves, the position, and what makes or breaks a staff dynamic. We ended with a solid team of people that cared about each other and their communities.
b) My fellow RDs. They proved again how amazing of a team we have, by just stepping in to take things off my plate, but also by making sure I wasn't doing nothing but the job. They cared about my well-being, as well as my performance, and showed it throughout.
c) The experience also proved to me that I can "rise to the occasion". And I needed that, because I was starting to think I didn't know what I was doing. Overall, I think it was the better thing that could have happened.

I had my top surgery that I have been saving for all year and currently recovering from it. I haven't yet had the absolute feeling of elation, that I expect will come with the first day of public shirtlessness. Yet again, one of my friends and colleagues came through to help me with the process, and I am so glad she did. It gave us a chance to become closer and gave me an opportunity to get to know her better. I couldn't have asked for a better hotel roommate that week!

I got to come back to Michigan on Pride weekend. There are certain aspects of the East Lansing and Lansing areas and the queer and activist communities here that I miss, and it was good to experience that for a short period, as well as seeing some of my old friends, including my brother. I have to say though that it was also good to experience that as an outsider with no real stake in the interpersonal politics of those two communities anymore. I got to taste the juices, without biting onto the bitter herb. It's a new analogy I'm trying out, go with it.

Next week I am going to the Social Justice Training Institute, yet again with one of my friends and colleagues - a different one. This first year at UVM has highlighted for me how salient my racial and ethnic identities/experiences are to me and just how much personal development I have yet to do in that area. SJTI is that opportunity for me, as well as one where I get to become closer and re-connect in some ways to another one of my colleagues and new friends.

I crave these connections, these shared experiences that truly allow us to show our vulnerable sides to each other. That's been a point of struggle for me for the last few years, letting down my guard and letting myself become vulnerable. I know that I'm back on that track, but I've got a long way to go still. And I'm OK taking that track a little slowly this time and making sure I don't make the same mistakes as before. Having said that I also need to become better about letting myself make mistakes, or at least not making myself feel like a horrible person for it.

After SJTI, there's a potential for another journey to begin... testosterone. Thinking about that word or even saying it these last few days has invoked a hint of anxiety inside. I am not sure what the anxiety is about, whether it's just general nervousness, or it's wanting it so much that I'm afraid it won't happen (which is somewhat irrational), or it's wanting to make sure I really want it.

It's a journey I've been looking forward to for a while now, but one that I suspect will come with a lot of legal hang-ups, as I try to navigate some unknown territories. But as someone pointed out to me two days ago, if the proverbial shit were to hit the proverbial fan, I think I've got the resources and the people to back me up in a fight. The question is am I ready for the fight and do I want to put my friends through another one with me?

2009 is shaping up to be a great year. It's going to be one that I remember for a really long time.

2 Vlogs in

Just posted my second entry. So both of the vids are up now:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42mBRPDfD4c
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ed-F5vO5nqI

The audio on the first one is a little on the low end, but I got it figured out for the second. Should have a third one up by the end of the week/weekend.

Letter to CK

I miss you.

I miss you so incredibly much.

I've been up for hours, the last of which I've been crying and I can't make myself stop. Even after all these years, even after 3 relationships since, it still hurts when I take a minute to remember that you're not a part of my life anymore. And probably never will be again.

Those minutes come to me when I feel alone. And while I wasn't technically alone tonight, sometimes it takes being surrounded by people to remember how alone I really feel. And then I remember you. And I wonder if you ever remember be, and what you think if you do.

We would have been married by now. You'd be coaching, like you are now, but I would be there for you to come home to every day. I don't know what I'd be doing. Whatever I could I suppose to help me stay with you. Maybe we'd both be working at the same university, maybe not. We'd have our own place by now, because you're good at that sort of stuff... saving and budgeting and planning life. And I wouldn't feel so damn alone.

There is nothing in my life I regret more than what I did. Not a single solitary thing. Sometimes I think I might have forgiven myself, but then nights like this happen when I remember you're not in my life anymore and I just can't forgive. I can't forgive the person who made you hate me, who made you not ever want to lay eyes on me again. You, the first person I felt like myself with and who made me feel so loved I couldn't imagine what it would be like not to feel loved.

And I know I'm loved today by certain people in certain ways, sure, and I'm grateful for every ounce of it. Family, friends. But it's not the same. It's not you. By now your hatred of me has probably subsided into indifference, which almost feels worse. Hatred, in its opposition, holds the potential for love and caring, indifference does not.

I don't know how to end this letter. Probably because I have so much to say and I don't want it to end. Even though I know how unlikely it is that this would reach you, I almost feel like I'm talking to you again. And you're staring back at me with that look that tells me you hear me, but have no clue what to say. It's an angry look, one of the last ones I remember you giving me. I shattered your image of me, made a monster out of this man you once loved. And that rightfully made you angry and confused.

I want a chance to get another look from you, even though I know I don't deserve it. One not tainted by anger, and confusion, and hatred, and fear. A look that says we can talk again, that maybe I'd get the opportunity to undo the image of the monster that I left you with, that we can find a way - with time and work - to be in each other's life again even if we were never together again. I would do anything for that look.

And I'm finding that even after almost 6 years since the last time I heard you say "I love you", I still miss the sound of your voice, and the glimmer of your eye, and the gentleness of your smile. I still very much miss you.

And I'll never stop being sorry for what I did.