Author Archives: Sean Swain

On Patriotism…Again

People have accused me of being unpatriotic. Having read “In Support of the Troops…Who Frag,” or, more recently, “Against Helping (Bombing) Syria,” some people have questioned my loyalty to the United States of America.

They should. I have none. And neither should they.

What is “patriotism”? At base, it is a belief in loving, supporting, and defending one’s country. That’s what the dictionary tells us.

Now, accepting that definition, what does it mean? Well, first and foremost, to believe in loving, supporting and defending your country, you have to have one. Someone who is country-less cannot very well love a country they don’t have .

So, before I can be patriotic, I have to ask: Do I have a country?

I suppose if I had some sort of “ownership” over a country, that would make it mine. In the U.S., we have this pervasive mythology, almost a civil religion of sorts, the idea that all of us jointly “own” this country. Of the people, by the people, for the people. But I can’t imagine that anyone except the most unthinking rube could still be buying into that faerie tale when everything we see and hear and experience directly contradicts that mythology.

Is there anyone in the U.S. who is not part of the ruling elite who says, “This is running exactly the way I think it should…”? Or are there millions of people deeply disturbed by the conduct of a government that has long ago stopped consulting them and has, for some time, dictated the terms to them?

I am reminded of a protest sign I saw prior to the invasion of Iraq. It featured a picture of George Dubya with a voice bubble that said, “I don’t care what the American people think…They didn’t vote for me anyway.”

The U.S. government long ago stopped caring what we think. In that sense, it has “gone rogue,” has assumed the right to operate without consent of the ruled. That being the case, the United States is no longer out country—it is a country under the control of complete strangers who reserve the right to act like your enemy if it suits them, and reserves the right to treat you like their enemy if it suits them.

Can you feel like an “owner” of a country where you wake up every day with a shotgun in your face? Where the Apache attack helicopter (you paid for) has its cannons pointed at you?

I can’t. All mythology aside, I have to face the reality that the entity declaring itself my government is not “my” country. My relationship to that entity is not voluntary, not consentual, but is one of forced obedience.

We are reduced to slaves.

I don’t believe that slaves owe any allegiance to a master. I believe slaves owe allegiance to themselves and to their own liberation, by whatever means necessary. But that’s me.

At any rate, if we do not “own” a country, if we are, for all practical purposes, excluded from the joint ownership of the United States, then it is no more “our” country than is Bolivia or Iran or Belgium. It’s just geographically closer to us and excercises its power over us in a more direct way—which, reasonably, is all the more reason to hate it rather than love it, if you think about it objectively. Yes, Bolivia and Iran and Belgium do exist, but they aren’t in your face and in your wallet if you’re in the U.S.

But the U.S. is.

Important to point out, I think: We’re not working with “What I believe,” and, therefore, everyone is entitled to their own beliefs and all beliefs are equal; what I’m describing is a factual truism. I’m not declaring that the United States is not my country; the United States, through its actions, declared that a long time ago.

It makes no real effort to hide its animosity and distrust of its subjects. We are enemies to be spied on, controlled, manipulated and neutralized.

I cannot “love,” nor “support,” nor “defend” anything that spies on me, controls me, manipulates me, and neutralizes me. Anyone reasonable could only despise such a creature as that, not pledge allegiance to it.

One can make the false argument, I suppose, that the U.S. government isn’t “so bad”–that is to say, that a lot of other governments treat people worse than the U.S. generally treats us. This is a kind of relativity argument—that the U.S. looks good relative to other governments. But, this is a false argument. First, we have no way of knowing for certain what it’s like to live in any other country under any other regime because we don’t live there and we don’t know. Second, it’s really irrelevant anyway, because to say the U.S. is not treating us terribly is to say the U.S. is not treating us terribly yet. But if we accept that the U.S. operates without our consent, and we are subjects in a ruler-and-subject relationship, then any argument that the U.S. treats its citizens better than some other regime treats its citizens is nothing more than an observation that we haven’t yet provoked a really serious atrocity—not that a serious atrocity isn’t possible. And we know that in any situation where the government operates without the consent of the people, not only are serious atrocities possible, not only are they probable, but on a long enough time line, they are inevitable.

It’s probably worth pointing out that of all the millions and millions of Germans who lived under the Third Reich, only a small percentage were jailed, killed, or tossed into concentration camps. So, the same argument that “the government’s not so bad” could be (and probably was) used by the vast majority of Germans, just as it is now used by the vast majority of Americans.

Relating all this back to the question of patriotism, do I—or, of any of us– “have” a “country” to “love,” “support,” or “defend”? At the very least, I would have to say that if this is “my” country, it certainly doesn’t seem to know it.

Having said all that, all of the traits that should define a “good American”–honesty, integirty, courage, loyalty, kindness, responsibility—all these virtues militate against “loving” and “supporting” and “defending” the United States. Given the conduct of the United States, it is not possible for freedom-loving, honest, life-affirming, conscientious people to love, support or defend the United States. Good, decent people cannot support things such as genocide or the purposeful and deliberate murder of children.

After the bombing of Iraq, U.S. government documents were declassified, detailing a well-thought-out plan to bomb water-treatment facilities (a crime under international law) because the resultant lack of water would cause dehydration, which kills children much faster than adults; all the dead children would then provoke the Iraqi people to ruse up against the ruling regime.

The U.S. government deliberately murdered children. All tolled, the U.S. murdered more than 500,000 children in a 10-year period, a death toll that former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright said was acceptable.

To love and support and defend the United States is to love and support and defend child murder, wholesale child murder. And that’s just one event. If you look at the conduct of the U.S. in world affairs, that atrocity is not an exception to the rule. (In fact, the language and perception is so utterly twisted that, in 2008, in the presidential elections, candidate John McCain, who participated as a cog in the U.S. death machine in Southeast Asia, disparaged opposing candidate Barack Obama for Obama’s “associations” with Bill Ayers—a man who sacrificed in order to end the illegal war. The American conception of things is so upside-down that a mass murderer candidate questioned the integrity of someone who opposed wanton violence by calling him a terrorist.)

No one with vaulted American virtues can love or support or defend the indefensible. No one can love or support or defend a ruling elite that has highjacked our world imposed an agenda to the benefit of a few and to the injury of many—all maintained through forced and the treat of force.

Allegiance to tyrants is never patriotism. It is treason against conscience.

Sean Seeking New Lawyers [Update!]

Update! Bob talked to Sean, they clarified some things and Bob is back on board. This means Sean’s got a lawyer who’s working pro-bono, but needs to pay his assistants and cover filing and travel costs.  The more money we can raise, the more help Bob can afford to provide. There’s lots to do so don’t hesitate to chip in.

Fitrakis and Gadell Newton are no longer representing Sean Swain. We are seeking new legal counsel to help with a variety of legal struggles Sean has been facing. The most important and most recent case is a pretty clear first amendment issue, where ODRC officials fumbled terribly, described their own conduct reports as inappropriately targeting ideology and speech and then attempted to “re-do” the process coming up with new conduct reports that were just as poor and ideologically targeted, and then transferred Sean to supermax on the basis of the first conduct report, which even they had admitted was inappropriate.

Sean needs lawyers who will follow through. We have raised some money (less than $1000) but hope to raise more. Experience in post-conviction or civil rights would be great, but really the most important thing is communication, and working with Sean (he and his outside supporters can do a lot of the work) and reliability. Half the battle in these politicized cases is media attention, embarrassing or shaming the ODRC and the State of Ohio into doing the right thing, so we need a lawyer who is comfortable with us using the case to generate media attention, about both Sean’s situation and the general state of abuse and downright bizarre practices in US prisons.

 

Some Thoughts on Immigration Reform

by *

As of June 10, the U.S. Congress was deep into heated debate over immigration policy. Lawmakers are considering spending billions of dollars of your money to tighten down on illegal immigration. The debate seems to be over how much money and how much crack down we can expect.

I note that in all the debate, the only immigration discussed is human immigration—that is, the perceived “problem” of humans crossing borders. No one seems to have a problem with money crossing orders, for instance. Money moves electronically and transcends all geographical borders. In this sense, money has more rights than humans do.

No one is protesting corporations crossing borders either. Corporations are global citizens, residing in numerous nations simultaneously, never stopped nor questioned at any border crossing. It would seem that corporations have more rights than humans too.

Then you’ve got jobs. Jobs travel across borders on a regular basis without any protest. U.S. Jobs go to Mexico; Mexican jobs go to China; Chinese jobs go to India; Indian jobs go to Cambodia. Thousands of former manufacturing jobs that started in the U.S. Have more frequent flier miles than the unemployed workers who used to have those jobs.

Jobs have more rights than humans.

In fact, it would appear that nothing gets regulated at borders except human beings. If only humans had the rights that money, corporations, and jobs possess, humans could cross borders unmolested also.

Borders. What are “borders” anyway? What we’re talking about is an artificial line that some asshole drew on a map, right? I mean, there’s a line around the so-called State of Ohio, but that line doesn’t exist in real life. There’s no chalk-line traced around any geographic or political territory; the lines are only on maps. If we chose, really, we could adjust a border a foot this way or a foot that way and chances are, nobody would know. Or, on the U.S. southern border, we could unilaterally adjust the border hundreds and hundreds of miles in one direction.

That’s what the U.S. did when it invaded and stole several states’ worth of territory from Mexico—the arable land, and left the hungry people on the other side of the border. A line on a map drawn by some asshole. In the case of Mexico, it’s a line to separate the hungry people from the arable land and produce stolen from them a couple centuries ago.

Hungry people trying to get where the surplus of food exists—that’s a problem. So we’re going to spend, as a nation, more money to keep the hungry people on the Mexican side than it would cost to give those hungry people a bowl of soup and a blanket and a gift basket.

So, considering that, what would happen if we simply erased all the lines that some asshole drew on the map? If we did that, all humans would be as free as money and corporations and jobs. Everybody could go wherever they wanted to go.

Holy fuck.

*This may or may not have been written by Sean Swain, but since September 2012, the Fascist Buffoons of Intimidation have used the Ohio Department of Retribution and Corruption as a sock-puppet to orchestrate a terror campaign against Sean Swain for his beliefs and his writings. So, until Anonymous melts down the government’s databases or until the oppressed and enslaved rise up to topple the international system of capital, Sean Swain cannot have his name associated with any published work whether he wrote it or not. In a free country, this footnote would not be necessary.

An Open Letter to Edward Snowden

Dear Edward,

Welcome back to the human race.

Exposing the monster that keeps us all in its insidious clutches will likely serve to awaken at least a small number of people who slumbered while this beast put the whole planet on information lockdown. That’s very cool. You’ve done your part to remove the mask of our true enemy, the enemy of freedom everywhere. But while the USA Today ponders the question of whether you’re a hero or traitor—an absolutely insane question—what’s on my mind is that there are thousands of operatives just lie yourself who have engaged in highly illegal spying on others, including Americans whose tax money sponsored the vast spying program—and yet you’re the only one to step forward? You’re the only one with the character and sense of integrity to warn humanity that the hierarchical monster has gone way too far?

Think of that, Edward. Thousands of Americans on the U.S. payroll where involved in vast conspiracies to absolutely eliminate the last vestiges of freedom any of us have…and you’re the only one to break ranks, to stop goose-stepping.

Think about that. Think about the pure Nazis that this control system has turned all those people into.

All but one. You.

So look, if you read this, stay out of their clutches. These are the most terrible, ruthless, rotten creatures to ever walk on two feet and if they get ahold of you, they will do everything in their power to scientifically destroy your mind and personhood. Trust me on this. The United States is the torture and human-rights abuse capital of the world. Nobody does it better.

Stay alive. Stay free.

If these words constitute treason, then make the most of them.

The truth is dangerous.Stay dangerous.

 

Freedom,

*

*This may or may not have been written by Sean Swain, but because the Fascist Buffoons of Intimidation wage a proxy terror campaign against him, Sean cannot have his name associated with anything in print. If Sean wrote this, and no one is saying he did, his own declaration exposing the U.S. Army’s School of the America’s can be viewed here.

In a free country, Edward Snowden would have nothing to expose.

About Captain McGuire

I’m an anarchist. Through and through, all the way down to my bones, an anarchist. No one alive could be more thoroughly opposed to this dysfunctional system of hierarchy, and no one will cheer louder when swivilization finally sputters out once and for all. I’m secure in my anarchism-ness.

But have said all that, every once in a great while, a hierarch will do something not so terrible.

Take Captain McGuire, here at MANCI.

Now, I know. Captain McGuire works for the prison industrial complex. I know, she would shoot me off the fence and leave me dangling in the concertina wire if I tried to go home to my elderly parents who need me. I get it. But check it out: Captain McGuire was making her rounds at the same time that chow was being delivered. She watched a tray being passed into a tray slot and reportedly told the porter to give the tray to her. Captain McGuire then took the tray, with what little food was on it, and marched straight out of the block to the food service fascists and confronted them on the size of the portions.

For some background here, I’ve been in segregation since September. I’ve lost 55 pounds. Blackjack too is down from 220 pounds to under 160. Dillon at 6’4” most recently weighed in at a whopping 145 pounds and the alleged dietitian, some ass-clown named Elswick who doesn’t know nutrition from ice-sculpture took Dillon off of his high-calorie diet.

Apparently, 145 pounds at 6’4” is way too heavy.

He looks like a survivor from Dachau. You know, the walking skeletons with eyes the size of saucers peering out from deep in their skulls.

That’s what we’re dealing with here. MANCI is under the directon of the Gestapo High Command. And nobody had the courage nor the integrity to break ranks and insist that captives back here in segregation should get a standard-sized serving of food…except Captain McGuire.

So, last night we had spaghetti. The previous spaghetti dinner to last night, I received exactly four spoonfuls of spaghetti. That’s it. But since Captain McGuire confronted food service? Last night, I got fourteen spoonfuls of spaghetti. I mean, we’re not talking mafia-don servings here, but it was a standard-sized serving.

We’re getting fed now.

Blackjack stays awake for more than 3 hours a day. We both have energy and I think I’ve put on a few pounds in the last week. I know I’ve stopped losing weight now.

Keep in mind, there was a time when I was writing to friends and asking, “They can’t starve us to death. I mean, they can’t kill us, can they?

Captain McGuire answered that question. She said, “No.”

I’m almost hesitant to write this for posting because MANCI is such an insidious shithole and its administration is so utterly bankrupt of morality, I can only imagine that by recognizing Captain McGuire’s fairness and professionalism, I’m very possibly ruining her career. At MANCI, if I were instead to say she duct-taped mentally ill prisoners to a table and shoved a plunger up their asses, she’d probably get promoted. So, I hope this recognition doesn’t hurt Captain McGuire. Empathy is such a rare thing from corrections officials, you don’t want to punish anyone for it.

To stand up for the right thing is never a small act of courage. Anyone wanting to have Captain McGuire recognized for her integrity and professionalism should contact:

Ohio Governor Kasich (614) 466-3555

ODRC Director Gary C. Mohr (614) 752-1150

MANCI Warden Terry A. Tibbals (419) 526-2000 then dial 806-2000 for a direct line to his office.

We need prisons to collapse. We need systems of control to crumble. But in the meantime, we benefit from more Captain McGuires and fewer shitbags.

We might not starve to death back here after all.

Thanks, Captain McGuire.

Sean has been transferred!

After many months of waiting in awful conditions in the segregation unit at Mansfield, Sean has been transferred to the Ohio State Penitentiary in Youngstown, Ohio.

Please take a minute to write to Sean, or to send him a book or zine. Getting transferred is really hard on people in prison, even if we hope that his conditions will be slightly better at O.S.P. than in the segregation unit at MANCI. He would love to hear from friends and supporters to boost his spirits while he adjusts to new conditions of confinement.

Also, Sean has not been allowed access to books for the last year, and receiving books right now would be a real relief.

Seriously, fuck the State and every person who makes a penny off keeping the people we love in cages.

 

Sean’s new address is:

Sean Swain 243-205

Ohio State Penitentiary

878 Coitsville-Hubbard Rd.

Youngstown, OH 44505

Days of Teargas, Blood + Vomit

How prisoners overwhelmed fascist forces in the July 4th rebellion at ManCI. A participant’s account from inside the special manglement unit. (Follow up to this post.)

 

Ghandi would not approve.

It’s 11 July 13, 8 days since my last dispatch when Blackjack was strapping the plastic lunch tray to his arm. Since then, its’ been a rough-and-tumble bucket-o-blood back here in the Special Manglement Unit of Mansfield Corruptional Institution. Backjack’s missing 3 teeth (that he really doesn’t use much back here anyway) and my stomach injuries had me puking for a time (no blood, a good sign), but as of today, neither of us are leaking fluids and the fascist fuckweasels have now moved us to the veritable suburbs of the SMU.

This is the whole story, and most of it is true.

July 4 began with emergency lockdown, the fascists all hopped up on adrenaline, coffee, and the news of the escape that happened the previous night. Turns out, a prisoner escaped the old-fashioned way. He leaned a steel ladder against the fence and left. No shit.

But as with any other situation where popular forces strike a successful blow against the fuckweasel control system, those of us still locked in the showbox take the full brunt of it. Breakfast was shit and there was no recreation. So even before Warden Terry Tibbals, a.k.a, BLACK LIGHTNING, arrived at his office with his bag of donuts and cup of decaf, all hell had already broke loose in the Special Manglement Unit.

Forty steel doors banging, busted sprinkler heads pounding thousands of gallons of rusty water down the stairs and cascading over the top range, the nazis jacking cans of pepper spray and running for the exit.

Fuck them. It’s not like they planned to have a barbecue anyway.

So, if you’ve been locked in the shoebox for any length of time, you know what’s coming. A captain or a major will soon be on-station to announce his own importance, only to find every fucking cell-door window blocked and barricaded, whereupon he will slosh with wet socks and shoes back to an office to call in the Extraction Team- a crew of genetic oddities on brain-entrancing drugs, clad in jackboots and helmets, shields and flak vests. Their whole reason to exist is to crush human skulls and reckless abandon, cell-to-cell, breaking bones and spirits, but from the rumbling of the steel doors, we knew they’d better get some chips and beer because they were gonna be there a while.
In SMU4B, Blackjack and I occupied the cell closest to the entrance so by dumb luck and a twist of fate, we were the front line of the very first battle, ground zero in the struggle between the rebellion and the goddamn stormtroopers goose-stepping in mechanical unison, hopped up on their innate hatred of humanity and the echoes of unhappy childhoods.

It would be seven on two, close quarters blind fighting, the hierarch machine coming to exterminate the anarchist tendency once and for all, and for our part, the possibility that we would fight and die, not for some inglorious cause, but driven by the simple sad reality that it’s better to fight and perhaps die than to live as slaves.

Blackjack and I took a quick inventory and came up with an impromptu battle plan. They might kill us, might pound us to death, but they were going to know we were here. The least we could do on the way out, with the snapping of bones and growls of rage, is scar these fascist fuckweasels for life so they wake up from sweaty nightmares decades from now and realize that yet against they’ve shit the bd, screaming my name, “SWAIN!”, since no one know who to pronounce Blackjack’s (Blackjack included).

 

WELCOME TO WACO

We know how it goes down. The Extraction Team opens the food slot and sprays an industrial sized can of outdoor-use-only pepper spray into the cell, a space the size of a bathroom, blasting some napalm-death that peels off skin and lights the lungs on fire. So we had to prepare for that. Then, they’d key the door and bullrush in, a phalanx behind riot shields and helmets, pounding ahead and crushing anything organic in their way. At least 7 of them, taming, breaking, punishing.

We had to stop that too.

The fascist fuckweasels had the latest technology for violence and brutality. We had a plastic bag, styrofoam cups, shampoo, toothpaste, sheets, blankets, a broom, socks, soap, 2 lunch trays, a razor blade and a stapler.

I don’t know where the fuck we got the stapler but it was brand new and had a full compliment of staples. We quickly concluded that the stapler, while convenient for all our segregation office needs, really proved quite irrelevant in a violent struggle for liberation against the forces of fuckweaselry. But all that other shit could kick a fucking dent in their machinery.

By the time those goose-stepping goons arrived, we were prepared- and the fascists would wish they could trade places with ATF agents crawling across the roof of some half-baked cult leader clinging to his bibles and guns in a podunk Texas town.

Welcome to Waco.

 

THE STANDOFF – NO SCRATCH THAT: THE EPIC MOTHERFUCKING STAND-OFF TO END ALL STAND-OFFS

 

If you’re reading this on your I-phone in study hall, don’t try this at home.

Well, unless you really, really hate your parents.

Unable to see into the cell because the window in the cell door was blocked, the fascists opened the food slot, only to find a bed sheet hanging in front of the door. They still couldn’t see. On top of that, a blanket was wedged in the 4 inch frame of the outside window with a roll of toilet paper to block the light from the sun, making the cell pitch dark. The lead fuckweasel reached his hand into the food slot to grab the sheet and yank it down, only to take a bar of soap in a sock across the knuckles, quickly withdrawing his hand in a stream of obscenities.

I was a pitcher in little league. I can swing the shit out of a sock.

Angered, they went straight to the pepper-spray, letting loose with about a gallon of it. What they didn’t know is that we used a whole tube of toothpaste, minty fresh and approved by the American Dental Association, to adhere a plastic bag over the food slot. That bag caught every bit of the pepper spray and when I hit that bag with the soap-in-a-sock, it coughed its contents right back at the fuckweasels who unleashed it.

That sent them running and sprawling into the cascading toilet water, coughing and cussing with gallons of snot pouring down the flesh of their inflamed faces.

Cancel the family outing with the fireworks. You’re not gonna be feeling very festive.

So as they splashed in the toilet water and rinsed their faces, the door rattling reached a savage pitch and I knew the maniacs and wildmen behind those steel doors were chewing on the inside of their own mouths just to get the taste of blood.

And here’s an abject lesson for all the forces of fascism from the colonizer troops in the oil wars to the pigs firing rubber bullets into occupy encampments to the fuckweasel prison guards imposing the program at the hot end of a can of pepper spray: It’s all fun and games until someone loses and eye. And then it’s just FUN.

They formed up, fueled on rage and pain, a seething hate machine, and keyed the door. It swung wide open and they came in behind the shield, into the dark unknown. They still could not see because the sheet wasn’t fastened to the door; it didn’t move when the door moved. It remained in the doorway because we hung the sheet from a curtain rod we created out of styrofoam cups- a lot of styrofoam cups, stacked, like 50 of them, and then wedged them into the door frame. So when they came marching into the battle dome, they came in blind with the sheet draped in front of their faces.

They didn’t see the shampoo on the floor or the plastic cup lids floating in the shampoo. The shield-man’s jackboots slid on the cup lids and we went hydro-planing forward, shoved from behind by the six-man phalanx that followed.

Keep in mind, there’s a steel bunkbed 3 feet in from the door and it’s bolted to the floor, creating a bottle-neck, a 3 foot square killing-floor where the goons must come in single-file across shampoo and cup lids sliding under their feet, as they follow a blinded shield-man into a dark room, a sheet hanging in his face.

The shield-man didn’t see me in the shower, pulling the trip line tight. It caught his foot and he fell forward, his fuckweasel friends piling up behind him. Blackjack and I both began yelling, “I got him! I got him!” and “Stop resisting! Stop resisting!” giving the impression that the shield-man hadn’t fallen, but had instead tackled one of us.

I let go of the trip line and pulled the strip of sheet we had cut with the razor blade to hook into the sprinkler. I yanked it hard, unleashing thousands of gallons of black gunk fire suppressant pushed by tens of thousands of gallons of water. It was cold and disorienting and blinding, immediately blasting the pile of fuckweasels like a fire-hose from the ceiling.

That was Blackjack’s cue. They hadn’t seen him under the mattress on the top bunk. He sprang to his feet, all possible pepper-spray neutralized by the water filling the air, and with his half of the broomstick secured to his wrist with a strip of bedsheet (just in case he might drop it, he could recall it to his hand with a flick of the wrist) he leaped down from the top rack onto the fuckweasel heap, swinging like a madman. From the opposite side, out of the shower, I rushed into the maelstrom with my half of the broomstick tied to my wrist, and the soap-in-a-sock in my other hand screaming and snarling like a savage. In no time, we were behind the bewildered pile of drenched muscle and heavy equipment, and we bolted for the door.

Fuck everything else. If we got through the open cell door and out into the block, we faced one guard with a cell phone taking video and another guard with a handful of keys.

Yeah. Keys. The great equalizer. We had 2 primitive clubs in our fists, rags wrapped round our faces, and as many as 78 other comrades trapped behind steel doors – doors that could be opened with those keys. We only had to get out of the cell and lock the extraction team inside. But, as we reached the door, the fuckweasels outside the cell dropped everything and threw themselves against the closing door. Blackjack got his club wedged in to keep it from closing as he struggled against the door, I swung on the extraction team trying to regain their feet, and a helmet flew against the wall.

Unfortunately, there was no head inside it.

Maybe next time.

Blackjack thrust against the door and it gave, knocking down the guards on the outside, and we tumbled out of the cell and into the block, the rattling doors and cheers completely deafening. We crawled forward in the ice-cold water and gunk, clawing at the fallen guards, but before we gained purchase, the extraction team had us by the legs, dragging us back into the containment of the cell, our nails dragging on the concrete, one pig’s tasteful yet understated loafer still gripped in my left hand, pepper spray firing from every direction.

Strange, but they didn’t beat us to death. Sure, they got their random kicks and punches in as they held us down and confiscated our weapons, but then they bolted, leaving us sprawled, broken and bloody in a flood of toilet water on the concrete floor.

It was surprisingly comfortable, but I still had all my teeth. As amazing as this is, with all the damage the fascist fuckweasels have inflicted over the decades, the dentist tells me that my teeth are in fantastic shape. Blackjack’s missing 3 teeth. We couldn’t find them. And, even if we could, they had been floating in toilet water.

I pulled something in my abdomen that caused me to puke from the pain for a few days and we both have scorch marks from random pepper-spray blasts, but no broken bones. Our eyes are still firmly in their sockets, and neither of us appear to be leaking any vital fluids.

It took a long time for the fascists to regain control of SMU 4, as they faced inspired and courageous resistance in every fucking cell. The extraction team left the unit at the end of their shift dispirited and haunted by their experience.

Brave new world, shitbags. Brave new motherfuckin’ world.

 

THE AFTERMATH

We should be dead right now. I mean, several prisoners died here in Terry “Black Lightning” Tibbals’ mismanaged care for a hell of a lot less. Our survival seems a complete absurdity. But here we are.

The official story is that the video of events was lost when the pig dropped the cell phone in his effort to contain us in Cell 1019. I suspect that’s bullshit. I suspect that nobody wants to explain why we had a broomstick in the first place (general incompetence by the pigs on cell-cleaning day), or why the extraction team marched into a cell without visual capacity, or how to starved-out captives out-manoeuvred and out-fought their best fuckweasel fighting force. Whatever their motive, I’ve been told that these events didn’t happen… not the way they happened, anyway.

 

HELLA HELLA OCCUPY

Four days later, we remained in a burned out shell of a cell, paint peeled from the walls, chunks of concrete missing out of the ceiling. So on July 8, as Pelican Bay revolutionaries undertook a monumental, historic hunger-strike, Blackjack and I were cuffed and escorted out to the outdoor recreation cage. No shit.

Beginning at 6:30 in the morning, we announced to the fuckweasel establishment that we were occupying the recreation cage and not giving it back until our demands were met. Inside the block, the rest of the SMU4 prisoners were again off the chain, rattling doors and flooding the unit. By dinner, they sent in a negotiator to use his “interpersonal communication” training to talk us out of the cage. When that failed, they called the extraction team… who simply did not show up.

Officer Miller, a shitbag of the highest order and a regular feature on SMU4 (who can be reached by calling ManCI and then dialing 806 and extension 6101), took a cell phone video of our demands for coming out of the recreation cage. When told all demands would be met, we surrendered, only to be dragged, handcuffed, back to our burned-out cave to find our food in the toilet and most of our property destroyed. Miller and Bradshaw had taken all of our soap, toilet paper and pens. As if we needed them.

Amazingly, the stapler we hid under the steel sink and toilet combo remained there, and was in perfect working condition.

Very durable.

Officer Miller threatened to put his dick and balls in our food, so- as a natural consequence, Blackjack and I went without food the entire day, right along with the heroes of Pelican Bay and the thousands of hunger strikers across the country and around the world. Miller’s threats sparked a night of mayhem, leading the Gestapo High Command to conclude that Blackjack and I are a dangerous influence, and they moved us out of that stagnant cave in SMU 4 to the veritable zombie suburbs of SMU2- a comfortable peaceful corner of the special manglement unit where we are surrounded by prisoners incapable of action if you lit their asses on fire and chased them with a super-soaker filled with gasoline. The mentality of the entire unit revolves around a betting ticket put out by a prisoner called Vegas, and daily discussions of professional sports events. No revolution here.

Though we’ve been put out to pasture, the situation has greatly improved. Our food portions are back to standard; the laundry service has resumed; the cells are clean and dry, without toilet water pouring from the ceiling; and Blackjack and I are now in a cell where we can sleep without steel doors 3 feet away, banging us awake every ½ hour.

Some kind of disciplinary action was taken against us, but we don’t know what it was since we refuse to answer any more conduct reports. When the officer who came to shackle us heard we refused to go, he asked, “Are we gonna have to do this the hard way?” We responded, “you better go ask the extraction team.” He left, never returned.

So, there’s a lesson to derive from all this: the only effective answer to state terror in any form is equal and opposite revolutionary violence. Plain and simple. It’s the only thing the fascist fuckweasels understand.

I think of the last 9 and a half months that Blackjack and I foolishly tried to go along with the fascist program, to appeal to reason, to employ the non-violent processes made available to us – while our captors reduced us to conditions that where inhumane and intolerable, starving us out. If only we had undertaken this path nine months earlier, and maintained it, we might be drinking martinis by an olympic-sized swimming pool right now.

A point Derrick Jensen made in Endgame applies here: more prisoners of the Nazi concentration camps survived by resisting than by going along with the program.*

So I think about the events of these last 8 days and consider how the world would be different if this approach had been undertaken by the occupy encampments across the US and around the world, undertaken by everyone rejecting the global concentration camp imposed on us all. Imagine if the skull-bashing and finger snapping pigs of the State-terror machine, instead of being met with passive resistance to the dismantling of the encampments, had been met with molotov cocktails and bowling balls raining from roof tops; and resisters sporting helmets shoulder pads, and baseball bats appropriated from Dick’s sporting goods; or had faced man-hole covers blasting into the sky and streets collapsing under them from improvised explosive devices in the sewers – perhaps the trajectory of history would be quite different today.

All I’m saying is, if a former gas station attendant and a former sandwich station tech at Wendy’s can nearly defeat the hyper-fascist forces inside the State’s mind-fuck control unit by employing styrofoam cups, a tube of toothpaste, and a broken broomstick, what hope exists for the crapitalist pigs and their fuckweasel enforcers? If only a small fraction of so-called anarchists, revolutionaries, freedom-fighters, libertarians, tea-partiers or occupy supporters got serious for a moment, all the world’s officer Millers would have to remove their balls from our instant potatoes and run naked, screaming for their miserable and worthless lives, chased by angry hordes carrying pitchforks and torches, demanding a reckoning. I don’t want to impress you. I don’t even want to inspire you. I just want to wake you up. The state is a can of pepper-spray and there’s no reasoning with it. Freedom means destroying it.

We don’t need Gandhi’s approval. This is reality, however it is we feel about it. We need Gandhi to pass that tube of toothpaste and get that lunch tray strapped to his arm.

This is how you take back the future.

Brave new motherfucking world, Mohandas. Brave new motherfucking world.

 

Freedom or Death,

 

Sean Swain

Anarchist Prisoner of War

Mansfield Corruptional Institution

Super Mind-fuck Unit 2

11 July 2013

 

 

*BTW Sean doesn’t have access to the internet, so he doesn’t know about DJ being a a transphobic salmon touching turd.

 

Armchair Anarchists Suck

ARMCHAIR ANARCHISTS SUCK- A Response to Trolls on @news.

Irony of ironies- some mush-brained, liberal, state-worshipping hack wrote an online article slamming me as an “oddball” because, like all real anarchists, I want to abolish the state… and who is it that agrees with that state-worshipping hack? Other so-called anarchists.

Un-fucking-believable.

I ran for governor in Ohio – from prison – on the promise that, if elected, I would employ a number of radical steps that, foresee-ably, would cause the cataclysmic collapse of the state government. It doesn’t surprise me that the state-worshipping hack, his mind mismanaged and pickled in corporate slime, couldn’t comprehend why my campaign was funny. It also doesn’t surprise me that he couldn’t understand why my campaign was also potentially dangerous. So, he dogged me.

Still, I never thought I’d have to explain myself to anarchists. But, it appears that I do. So-called anarchists are now taking shots at me and continuing the smear work of a reformist, state-worshipping hack, making it necessary for me to explain myself and justify my actions to armchair anarchists whose only “action” involves a jar of peanut butter and the family dog. Here goes:

Reasons my campaign was funny:

      1. I ran for governor from prison. From prison.
      2. I ran for governor in Ohio, a conservative, republican, backwater shithole, a veritable zombie apocalypse that elected and re-elected George Dubya, arguably the most dangerous sociopath to be president, and Bob Taft, arguably the most dangerous fuckweasel to serve as a governor in the history of fuckweaselry.
      3. I was proposing to utterly destroy the oppressive state that this lemming population utterly idolizes, and I was promising to burn down their beloved capitalist system with a can of gasoline and a book of matches.

In short, I was saying everything I could possibly say to not get elected. But the campaign was also potentially dangerous because:

      1. It was funny and it was a mockery of the electoral and political system – and nothing is more dangerous to “authority” and “prestige” than laughter.
      2. This stunt got regional and even national media coverage, which created the chance for people to read my writings and perhaps begin to actually question the legitimacy of the state.
      3. It drove the prison fascists absolutely ape-shit.

Other prisoners knew why it was funny. It made me a minor celebrity. Whereas, before my campaign, I was “that anarchist guy” and nobody quite understood what anarchy was, my campaign made prisoners curious and before long, young black prisoners from the inner-city and from conflicting gang backgrounds were reading Berkman, Kropotkin, Proudhon, Sterner, Goldman, Bakunin, Parsons, and DeCleyre. They had a prison-wide revolution library. Some of them began a writing collective called The Conditions Factory (from a quote by George Jackson, “where the conditions for revolution are not present, they must be manufactured”).None of these prisoners have gone back to sleep. None of them have resumed their assigned seats.

So here I am, years later, still in direct conflict with the fascist fuckweasels. I’ve got the scars to prove it. I’m kicking and punching and drawing blood – fighting for your liberation and mine, fighting so fucking long now that I’m fighting because I don’t remember how to do anything else; I’ve been pegged as the creator of the Army of the 12 Monkeys because, out of 50,000 Ohio prisoners, the fascist fuckweasels concluded that I am the only one who could have done this to them.

I’m not telling you that I’m the most dangerous revolutionary locked up in the State of Ohio…

The State of Ohio is.

So do I get a unified anarchist army coming to my defense, organizing in solidarity, rising up to defy the mind-fuck machine? No. I get sniped by so-called anarchists who want to help a hierarch propagandist throw me under the bus… and they’re doing it now, when I’m more in need of solidarity from real anarchists than ever before.

I have to cut this short because here on the former death row, toilet water is pouring down the walls from the cells above us; Blackjack is strapping a plastic food tray to his arm with a sheet for use as a shield. It’s hard to see through the fog of tear gas. We still have to barricade the door because the fascists with their helmets and shields and weapons are about to march into the special management unit, and all we’ve got are bars of soap in socks and our bare hands to fight back. I can hear 30 raging fists pounding on steel doors, awaiting the clash, toilet water ankle deep on the storm troopers’ jackboots.

Happy Fourth of July.

Not trying to offend anyone here, but to all the armchair anarchists out there who aren’t surviving on a steady diet of teargas and blood: why don’t you stop typing that witty punchline, wipe the peanut butter off your balls, shove the dog to the side, and do something… just an idea. If I live through this, I’ll write more later. The state will get tired of killing us before we get tired of dying.

 

Freedom or Death,

Sean Swain

Anarchist Prisoner of War

Special Management Unit

Mansfield Corruptional Institution

July 4, 2013

 

 

Correspondance with Authorities

This is a series of letters Sean wrote to legal “experts” in Ohio regarding the accusation that his proposal to create a BLAST! Blog constituted a threat.

32 July 2013
Dear Chief Counsel:

I write to you to relate grave concerns regarding the conduct of the ODRC Counsel Trevor Matthew Clark, Esquire. I send copies of this correspondence to Mr. Rob Jeffreys, Chief, Bureau of Classification; to Joanna Saul, Director, C.I.I.C and to my legal counsel, Robert Fitrakis. I also retain copies for forwarding to the Ohio Disciplinary Counsel and the Bar Association.

Some background: In September 201 here at MANCI I was ideologically targeted and profiled, absent any accusation of misconduct, by investigator Angela M. Hunsinger, for my beliefs and protected speech. Admittedly so. When I retained activist attorney, Robert Fitrakis, the director reversed the entire case (MANCI-12-007219).

However, prior to that reversal on 24 April 2013, I was interviewed by Mr. Clark on 27 March. In that interview, Mr. Clark gave me the home addresses of Ohio lawmakers, some of which I memorized, including the address of Robert F. Hagar (562 Madera, Youngstown). I questioned then as I do now the propriety of Mr. Clark giving legislators’ private information to convicted felons. His conduct was highly irregular and conceivably criminal. I have since reported it to the Ohio Disciplinary Counsel and the Bar Association, as Mr. Clark may pose a serious danger to the lives of Ohio law makers.

Also on that date, Mr. Clark sought to coerce Les Dillon, ad admitted member of the Army of the 12 Monkeys, to retract his sworn statement that he had voluntarily written on my behalf and to falsely implicate me in that group. While Mr. Dillon resisted Mr. Clark’s coercion, this event reveals that Mr. Clark’s intentions were not to un-do the unconstitutional actions taken against me, but to find a pretext for justifying what had been done.

This is further supported by kite communications from Lt. Barlow here at MANCI. On 23 April 2013, the day before Director Mohr reversed MANCI-12-002907, referenced my guilty finding in that case, and my referral for security level increase – ALL 16 DAYS BEFORE THAT R.I.B. CASE WOULD BE HEARD. How did he know, 16 days in advance, that I would be found guilty, and referred for security increase? He claims he was informed by Mr. Trevor Clark. That means Mr. Clark had orchestrated my guilty finding more than 2 weeks before my R.I.B. Hearing.

Further, on 30 April 2013, Mr. Clark sent a fax to my counsel, Robert Fitrakis. In it, he wrote: “Inmate Swain’s disciplinary and classification hearings will be completed forth with.” Please note that a classification hearing would only be required in the event that (1) I was found guilty and (2) I was recommended for a security level increase.

So, now, the question naturally arises: How did Lt. Barlow, the R.I.B. Chair, and Mr. Trevor Clark, ODRC Counsel, both know in advance of my R.I.B. hearing that I would be found guilty of charged rule violations and recommended for a security level increase? Absent a paranormal explanation it would appear quite clear that Mr. Clark had engineered a “fix”, a predetermined outcome for my disciplinary process, contrary to all statutory requirements and constitutional safeguards.

Lt. Barlow’s 12 April Local Control Review is available on DOTS and Mr. Clark can provide you a copy of his fax to my counsel. My counsel can also provide you a copy of both.

To make matters worse, Lt. Barlow has admitted in a kite communication that he did not find me guilty in MANCI-13-002907 based upon the evidence presented at the hearing (as no evidence was presented at the hearing), but instead based on the “evidence” presented by Mr. Clark in my absence at a secret tribunal conducted prior to my hearing. By R.I.B. Chair Lt. Barlow’s own admission, he and Mr. Clark conspired off the record, ex parte, in my absence, and determined my guilt based on “evidence” I was never permitted to review nor challenge.

Does the Ohio Administrative Code, Ohio Constitution, or U.S. Constitution allow for “secret tribunals”?

Then, during the R.I.B. Hearing, Mr. Clark, on the record, confiscated all of my defense paperwork, alleging that “the FBI” wanted it.

I believe this long and documented pattern calls into question Mr. Clark’s judgment and propriety, if not his integrity. I ask that you intervene in this matter, investigate, and take appropriate action to correct this situation before Mr. Clark’s bizarre behavior must be addressed in a more formal and more public forum.

Please feel free to contact my legal counsel, Mr. Robert Fitrakis, at (614) 307-9783.

Thank you for your time and kind consideration of this matter.

 

Sincerely

Sean Swain

c: Rob Jeffreys, Chief, Bureau of Classification
Robert Fitrakis, Legal Counsel
Joanna Saul, Director, CIIC
A. Alysha Clous, Assistant Bar Counsel, Columbus Ohio Disciplinary Counsel

 
Here is The Columbus Bar Association’s response: Letter about Clark

And Swain’s response to that letter.

 

23 July 13

Dear Assistant Bar Counsel Clous:

I received today your letter of 18 July 2013, in which you indicate that you cannot determine whether Mr. Trevor Clark acted in an unprofessional or unethical manner when he gave home addresses and phone number of Ohio legislators to a convicted felon accused of creating his own terrorist networks. Thank you. Your correspondence will soon be posted at seanswain.org.

As I am sure you yourself are legal counsel, your assessment must be correct. If Mr. Clark handing out lawmakers’ home addresses to convicted felons and accused terrorists violates no ethical standards, then certainly it violates no law. If Mr. Clark was violating the law, he would be violating ethical standards. So, you done me the invaluable service of confirming that giving Ohio lawmakers’ home addresses to strangers without their consent is perfectly okay And if it poses no public danger to give Ohio lawmakers’ addresses to strangers, then certainly it should be okay to give out addresses of, say, corrections officials. And if it s okay to give out home addresses of corrections officials, there is no conceivable threat in someone proposing a web features where corrections officials addresses might get posted on a message board.

Again, Thank you.

 

Freedom,

Sean Swain

c: seanswain.org

 

 

23 July 2013

Dear Governor:

I’m very confused and I hope you can help me. Because I’m a prisoner and a simple guy, I’m going to write this in plain, simple language. I hope you don’t mind.

To give you an idea of what I’m facing, I have 3 cases in point to present to you:

FIRST CASE IN POINT. In August 2012, ODRC Director Gary Mohr outsourced prisoner financial transaction to the Jpay Corporation, and in the process he gave the personal information – Ohioans’ home addresses, phone numbers, and photos – of upwards of 700,000 prisoner visitors to Jpay without the consent of those 700,000 citizens. When I challenged this, every Ohio agency I contacted claimed that Gary Mohr’s conduct is okay.

Now, there’s a proposition of law in this, I think. A general principle. Director Mohr can bundle my elderly parents’ personal information and give it away to whomever he chooses without consent. And if “all men are created equal” under the law, that means anyone else can do what Director Mohr did. It’s okay for anyone to give away personal information of anyone else without asking consent.

The legislature said it’s okay. Your administration said it’s okay. Law enforcement said it’s okay.

SECOND CASE IN POINT. The ODRC has a website that posts my photo, name, and a description of my criminal convictions. The ODRC posts the same information on 50,000 Ohio prisoners. This is done without our consent.

Again, we have a general principle here. It’s okay to post public information on-line without someone’s permission. The law is the law. If the ODRC can do it, so can you, and so can I.

Your administration says it’s okay. The legislature says it’s okay. Law enforcement says it’s okay.

THIRD CASE IN POINT. On 27 March, ODRC Counsel Trevor Matthew Clark interviewed me and during questioning he handed me an address list that included home addresses and phone numbers, including yours, of Ohio officials. I held the list long enough to memorize some of the addresses. Senator Teresa Fedor, for example, lives on Belvedere in Toledo. Representative Hagar lives on Madera Avenue in Youngstown. Speaker of the House Louis Blessing lives on McGill Lane.

I found ODRC Counsel Trevor Clark’s conduct absolutely bewildering. Imagine if I was actually guilty of murder, and if I had actually formed the international terror network that Mr. Clark falsely alleges I formed. It would seem completely irrational to hand your personal, home address to a convicted murderer accused of terrorism.

It really makes you wonder about this bozo’s motives, doesn’t it?

Well, as it turns out, he did nothing wrong. That’s what the ODRC Director Gary Mohr says. That’s what he legislature says. And that’s what the Ohio State Highway Patrol says.

There’s nothing wrong with giving your home address to anybody without your consent. ODRC Counsel Trevor Clark did it and admits it in recorded testimony at my disciplinary hearing (MANCI-13-002907).

So now, having presented those 3 cases in point, I’m confused. I hope you can help me. The situation is this: I was falsely accused and provably framed for prison rule violations, facing supermax for no valid reason, and I proposed to friends in the free world that they created an on-line feature to expose the corrupt officials who maliciously framed me. I proposed posting their names, faces, and descriptions of their misconduct.

Sound familiar? I got the idea from the ODRC. I know it’s okay to do it. You said so. Director Mohr said so. The legislature said so. Law enforcement said so.

But now, with the original frame-up exposed, even Director Mohr said I did nothing wrong, and still I am going to maximum security because I proposed a web feature to expose prison staff crimes to the tax paying, voting public. And this is very confusing if you consider the 3 cases-in-point I’ve presented.

Remember, it’s okay for Director Mohr to bundle and give away my elderly parents’ personal information to anyone… And it’s okay for the ODRC to post my photo and name and offense description on-line without my consent… And it’s even okay for Trevor Clark to give your home address and phone number to a (falsely) accused terrorist in prison. So, my confusion lies in this: why is Trevor Clark, who gave me your home address, having me sent to maximum security simply because I proposed a web feature (that does not exist) that would post the same information about him and about Director Mohr that the ODRC posts about me?

It’s either okay to post someone’s name photo and conduct descriptions without their permission, or it isn’t.

You say it’s okay. The legislature says it’s okay. The courts say it’s okay. Law enforcement says it’s okay. Director Mohr doesn’t just say it’s okay – he does it… But ODRC Counsel Trevor Clark (who hands out your home address to accused terrorists without your consent) says it’s not okay.

Trevor Clark says if I post names, photos and conduct descriptions of ODRC bad apples, or even by simply proposing that someone else should do it, I am promoting “violence,” “property damage,” and “harassment of persons.” But if this truly the case as he says, my questions is, why has the ODRC for decades promoted “violence” and “property damage” and “harassment of person,
against me and against 50,000 other prisoners whose information is posted at the ODRC website? Also, why is Director Mohr promoting “violence” and “property damage” and “harassment of persons” against my elderly parents and the 700,000 prisoner visitors whose information he bundled and gave away without their consent? And why is the ODRC Counsel Trevor Clark promoting “violence” and “property damage” and “harassment of persons” against you when handing your address out to convicted felons accused of terrorist activities?

I hope you understand my confusion. As a model prisoner trying to earn a parole and go home, I seek nothing more than a means to hold corrupt prison officials accountable and I’ve done nothing more than propose a web feature to expose the crimes of my captors to tax payers and voters, and I am subject to a regiment of torture and terror by prison officials whose own conduct, which may in fact be criminal, reveals their knowledge that my lesser conduct is no violation of their rules.

Prison officials present that my proposal for publicly exposing staff crimes “threatens” the “security” of the prisons. I would suggest to you, Sir, that the crimes of my captors threatens prison security. I would suggest that Gary Mohr’s pirating of 7000,000 identities of Ohio citizens to an out-of-state profiteer threatens “security”. I would suggest that an unstable attorney for the ODRC handing out your home address to convicted criminals violates “security”.

Exposing bad apples to public scrutiny so systems can be reformed and the corrupt can be weeded out is not a threat to security. It is good policy. It is a public service. And the very fact that the ODRC feels so threatened shows just how far down the rabbit hole we really are.

I am a whistle-blower victimized by corrupt bureaucrats circling the wagons and defending the status quo, punishing me for what amounts to good citizenship. We’re through the looking glass. I am being subject to a terror campaign by an unstable bureaucrat who hands your home address out to prisoners and then tells those under his mismanagement, “Don’t do as I say, and don’t do as I do.”

Please investigate this matter and take appropriate action so that I do not die in prison for being a model prisoner. My legal counsel, activist attorney Robert Fitrakis, may be reached at (614) 307-9783.

Thank you for your time and kind consideration.

 

Sincerely,

Sean Swain

c: Counsel Robert Fitrakis
Mr. Rob Jeffreys, Chief, Bureau of Classification
Ms. Joanna Saul, Director, CIIC

Letter to Kevin “Rashid” Johnson

The following letter was written to Rashid upon learning of his torturous conditions at the Snake River facility in Oregon. Rashid has since been transferred to Texas. For an update on his condition, check out his support site. Rashid is a gifted artist and Marxist political theorist who serves as the Minister of Defense of the Black Panther Party Prison Chapter. I urge anyone reading the letter he sent to Anthony and feeling bewildered to write to Rashid and check out his support site for ways you can help.

Dear Rashid,

I just received from Anthony a letter he published of yours from 4 March describing your intolerable situation at Snake River. I’m sending a copy of that and this letter to friends at seanswain.org for publishing along with your contact information.

I hope your situation I better now and I want to urge you, despite how the fascist pigs may work to destroy you, that you treat Rashid Johnson according to his true worth and value. I cannot imagine that you would give Huey P. Newton a possible overdose of pills; or that you would force razorblades down the throat of George Jackson; or that you would dehydrate Malcolm X to the brink of death. I remind you that this revolutionary named Rashid Johnson is the only one of those four to so far survive the deliberate genocide that has take the lives of the other three.

Many people are depending on you. They have placed faith and trust in you. You are not alone because thousands stand with you. The eyes of the world are watching.

The future belongs to us. As Che Guevara said, we are walking on pure history—and we know it.

Your torturers know it too. They feel their system unravelling. They smell the smoke. They sense the colonial death machine grinding down.

They feel fear.
Stay alive. We’re getting to the good part.
I promise, we are.
Stay dangerous.

Freedom,
Sean