I was arrested at a protest on Tuesday morning (August 31) in New York City. I was there as a legal observer, standing on the side and video-taping the action to protect against police misconduct. My badge “National Lawyers Guild- Legal Observer†was clearly showing. They swept the streets and arrested eleven protesters, two legal observers (including myself), two medics, and a journalist. They did not issue warning. They used force. I was taken to a makeshift Detention Center at Pier 57 and later to Central Booking. I sustained injuries from handcuffs and was deliberately harmed by a Lieutenant when I asked him to loosen my cuffs. It was the most physical pain I have ever experienced. I lost feeling in part of my right hand for the remainder of my detention. I was never told my charges but later read on a form: disorderly conduct. I was detained for sixteen hours. I was released with a Desk Appearance Ticket for 9/22. My property (two digital cameras, credit card, cell phone with all my contacts, printed emails with names of protesters) has been confiscated as “arrest evidence.†After my release, doctors at the NYU ER placed my right arm in a stilt and prescribed painkillers. They determined abrasion of the wrists and impingement of the radial nerve. It will take a week to heal. I have not spoken about the experience without crying. It was deeply traumatic. Those sixteen hours felt like three days. The physical pain alone is difficult to think about. But what upsets me is a deeper realization— that people can treat other people as if they aren’t human. I was told that writing would be good therapy. So I’m going to tell you what happened. Please read this right away, so that you know. I want you to know. If you tell other people, tell them that this happened in the United States. Tell them that this happened to a citizen—to a woman who is highly educated and articulate, who knows the legal system, who even had friends and lawyers on the outside working to get her out. I can’t imagine what happens to people without these things. Valarie Kaur— September 2, 2004 PROTESTING THE RNC I arrive in New York City on Saturday night and intend to stay for the week to document protests against the Bush administration at the Republican National Convention. I’m staying with my dear friend from high school B. in the East Village. On Sunday morning, we march with the United Peace and Justice March to protest the Bush administration alongside half a million people in the streets. There are people playing music, waving signs, singing songs, and a group solemnly holding up US-flag covered coffins to mourn the American soldiers killed in Iraq . I meet up with my college friends S. and J. and we wind up doing a silly interview for the Tough Crowd on Comedy Central. The march climaxes at Madison Square Garden, where my dad in California sees me waving to him on CSPAN. The New York Times described the march as “overwhelmingly peaceful.†On Monday evening, I go with B. to volunteer at the New Democracy Project’s “The Books on Bush†event, a panel talk with best-selling authors about the Bush administration. Up to this point, the events and protests in NYC have been reported as peaceful and creative, with news of a few hundred quiet arrests of bicyclists and demonstrators. INVITED TO LEGAL OBSERVE On Monday night, an old friend S. calls and asks me to legal observe for an action in the morning. I agree. He’s the one who trained me as a legal observer back at Stanford last year. He tells me to meet him in Union Square at 7 AM. I ask him what they’re planning to block. “I’d rather not say over the phone.†After five hours of sleep, I awake at 5:45 AM, have tea and cereal, grab my camera bag and walk to Union Square. At 7:15 AM, I see S. standing with a group of people and join them. They are dressed Wall Street to blend in. I don’t know any of them. They go into a Starbucks and discuss plans for the action: to hold a small street in the Financial District for twenty minutes and distribute flyers about the reaches of capitalism. It’s a direct action at an intersection. I sigh. Last March, during anti-war demonstrations in San Francisco, I decided that blocking streets was justified on the day after the war started (March 20) but not after that. Everyone anticipated the well-publicized mass protests the day the war began, so most working people expected traffic delays and knew why. But after that, blindly targeting people confused the message and created animosity among those who may have supported the cause. Targeting specific companies and buildings profiting from the war seemed smarter and more effective. But I decide to go along anyway. This group will really need a legal observer. THE PROTEST At 8 AM, we take the subway into the Financial District. S. and I both walk ahead of the rest of them. We find the corner of Beaver and South Michael, the intersection of two narrow cobblestone streets. It is an old part of the city and feels very European, tall buildings, narrow streets, few cars. The group breaks up and spreads out along the street, eating a bagel, talking on a cell phone, acting casual until the designated time: 8:20 AM. I stand on the corner and lean against the building, video camera in hand. A woman in white approaches me and recognizes that I’m there for the same reason. E. is a journalist for Indy Media along with an older man with a still camera. We stand and wait together. 8:20 AM comes and nothing happens. They hesitate, because they hear they are being followed. They converge on the corner and decide to begin the action anyway. At 8:27 AM, M. jumps into the street in front of a car and yells, “We’re having a party! A party for capitalism! We’re going to celebrate what capitalism does for us!†I immediately put on my bright green “National Lawyers Guild- Legal Observer†badge and continue rolling tape. M. hands the man in the car a flyer, wraps a boa around his neck, and dances around. The rest of the group begins stringing a web of red and yellow yarn across the street. A large man runs up to the car and yells, “Just go! Go right on through! Run through ‘em!†The car inches ahead but can’t go further. I begin to think, “This is ridiculous. They look like clowns. People are not going to understand what they’re doing here.†And then, “But oh man, they’re really going to need a legal observer when the police get here.†THE ARREST At 8:29 AM, two minutes after the action started, several men in civilian clothes run into the street toward the demonstrators and clobber them to the ground. “Get down! Get down!†A large man throws M. to the concrete, wrestles him down, and keeps him there. There is blood on his face. Another is pinned to the ground in the street, two more groups of people pinned against the wall. People yell from the windows of the buildings, “Thank God for the NYPD!†At 8:30 AM, an entire crowd of black uniformed officers floods the street. I stay on the street corner next to the curb. It is happening so fast, I don’t know where to focus my camera. Suddenly a woman’s voice: “NYPD. You’re under arrest.†I look up and see a short Latina woman in civilian clothes. I am confused. My arms are swung behind my back, my cell phone flies out of my hands and crashes into several pieces on the ground, and my camera is pulled away as I realize I’m being handcuffed. I begin to shout loud and clear, “You did not give me a warning! I am a legal observer! I am not part of this action! You did not give me a warning! I am a legal observer...†I am surrounded by several officers. They do not listen. They throw me against the wall with the others. At this point, I realize that the plastic handcuffs are on very tight. Someone throws my video camera onto my lap. The arrestees against the wall are chanting, “This is what capitalism looks like!†I do not chant. I don’t think the statement is effective, but I can’t think of one that is. All I can think of is how to explain to someone that I’m a legal observer. Another woman in civilian clothes with a notepad comes to take my name. “Please, I’m a legal observer. They’ve made a mistake.†She yells, “I don’t care. If you don’t give me your name, you’re non-compliant.†I give it to her. She moves down the line. That’s when I realize that these people in civilian clothes are undercover police officers. The journalist E. is thrown next to me in handcuffs. They got her too. But she had handed off her camera and tape to her colleague before they handcuffed her. I call an officer, “Please, sir, could you put this video camera in my bag? It’s on my lap and will fall when I get up.†My black camera bag is swung across on my body. He flings it open and goes through all the things in my bag with suspicion. “It’s just camera stuff!†I say. He throws the video camera inside the bag and walks away somehow disgusted. Another officer with a video camera is taping the faces of each of the arrestees against the wall. He’s staring at me. He looks Indian. They tell us to stand and herd us into a small police van, seven to each side. We’re packed inside, our knees pressing each other. A man on the end is yelling, “I’m a legal observer.†I raise my voice: “Do you realize you have two legal observers and a journalist in here?†The two officers standing in the van ignore me. I panic. “Who else was not part of the action?†I ask the others. “Woman in the red shirt, let’s not discuss that here,†one of them says. Of course. The van is bugged. What we say can be held against us. I am being stupid. I shut up and resolve that I’m arrested and can’t fight it. The others in the van are jovial, laughing, talking nonsense. They all know each other. There are nine men and five women. They try to talk to the officers. “Don’t you feel bad for treating peaceful people with violence?†“Not at all,†says the male officer. “Really?†I ask. “Nope, not at all,†he says, looking straight ahead. It’s a long ride, a tight space, suffocating and hot. We’re drenched in sweat. My handcuffs are very tight, digging into my wrists. We finally stop. The officers get out. “Please, could you leave the door open for us?†we ask. They slam the door shut. We sit there for awhile, very hot, complaining to each other about our handcuffs. They keep talking about how they’ve heard of handcuffs causing permanent nerve damage. This makes me nervous. One of the girls S. shows us that she’s slipped her hands out. She makes a call on a cell phone and informs their contact R. of our arrest. She gives R. my name and my parents’ number so that they know I’m here. DETENTION CENTER AT PIER 57 We’re finally filed out of the van. I look around. We’re in the Detention Center at Pier 57 on the Hudson. It looks like the inside of a large airplane hanger, filled with makeshift office desks and processing centers and large cages. There are no other prisoners. Only police officers spread out at various stations. We’re separated into men and women, the fourteen of us facing the group of officers who arrested us. There is a new man here, an officer in white who seems to be giving orders. The Latina woman who arrested me takes down my name on a clipboard. I discover that she is Officer Diez, badge #4285, my arresting officer, flown in from out of NYC. I give her my name. “Why didn’t you give me a warning?†I keep asking her, desperate. She says nothing. They take my picture with a polaroid. I decide to smile for the camera, my legal observer badge in plain view for the picture. At this point, the plastic handcuffs are digging into my skin. It feels as if knives are cutting deep into my flesh all around. I tell myself to breathe. I ask Officer Diez, “Please, my cuffs are very tight. Could you just loosen them?†“That comes later,†another officer yells. One of the male arrestees begins saying loudly and calmly, over and over, “I cannot feel my left hand. I cannot feel my left hand.†A few minutes pass without anyone doing anything. The officers are just talking amongst themselves, staring at their clipboards, waiting to get down everyone’s names and addresses. “I cannot feel my left hand!†Finally the man in the white shirt gives the order to cut the man’s cuffs and put on looser ones. This man is the Lieutenant. Short hair, black-rimmed glasses, he looks the office-type except for his large muscular frame. He turns to the girls’ group and yells, “Do any of you need your cuffs replaced?†At this point, I am losing feeling in my right hand. I am in pain. I am about to raise my voice, but I let the woman next to me, E. the journalist, speak up first. “It would be nice if you could...†The Lieutenant yells, “I’m not going to do it, because your UNCOMFORTABLE.†Everyone is watching. I look up at him and plead, “Please, sir, my cuffs are on so tight. They’re hurting me so badly. Could you please...?†The Lieutenant looks at me, comes behind me, takes my right hand, and twists it up and around. My face falls. He has cut my hand off my wrist with a knife. Sharp shooting pain up my arm, my body, my mind. So much pain. I have never felt so much pain. I scream but no sound comes out. A suspended moment. “See, she’s fine!†he yells, as if to make an example of me, and turns his back to leave. His white back descending. The tears begin streaming down in a torrent of pain. They’re all watching. The officers. The arrestees. I can’t let them see me. I turn my back, my face contorted in pain, and the tears keep streaming and my hand is broken and I am sobbing and I can’t stop. E. is standing next to me and can see my pain. She shouts, “Officer, will you please just loosen her cuffs!?†There is some movement, maybe some panic. “Take her first,†I hear an order. Someone takes my arm and walks me down to a table. All the officers at their stations are watching me. I cannot stop crying. But I must. I whisper the first lines of Jap Ji Sahib, the Sikh prayer, over and over under my breath: “Ikh Onkar, Satnam, Karta Purakh, Nirbho, Nirvair, Akal Murath, Ajooni, Saibhang, Gur Prashad, Jap.†Breathe. Recite. Breathe. Overcome the pain, overcome it. Be strong. They are all watching. Be strong. Sikhs have recited this prayer under torture. You can overcome this. Recite. Breathe. Recite. They make me turn around. They cut the cuffs. I bring my right hand in front. It is trembling. There are deep purple gashes in my skin. I look up and see Officer Diez, the woman who arrested me, at my side. In a feeble voice, crying, I say, “Why didn’t you just give me a warning.†This time, she answers. “There were officers in the street. We were clearing the street,†she says quickly, matter-of-fact. They unclip my black camera bag, turn it upside, and let its contents spill on the table. An officer spots the small woven purse I’m still wearing. It was a going-away gift from M.’s mom. I had strung the strap across my body underneath my shirt. I keep my money and ID inside. “Take that off!†says the officer. “I can’t. I have to take my shirt off. Just let me go somewhere to do it.†The woman officer lifts up my shirt from beneath and then pulls down my shirt very low, showing my chest. There are men and women officers around me. I cry, “It doesn’t come off!†“Then we’re going to have to cut it!†“No, please, this purse is from Laos. It’s very special to me. Please, it’s from Laos. It’s from Laos,†I keep repeating, as if it will make them see what they are doing to me. “You can sow it back on later,†she says while cutting the strap. They begin searching my pockets. “You haven’t searched her pockets yet!?†Suddenly the Lieutenant who hurt me is standing next to me. He is pointing at Officer Diez and yelling, “You took a prisoner without searching her?! You boarded her onto the van without searching her body!? That is incorrect procedure, Officer!†Officer Diez is defending herself, “I did not put the prisoner on the van. Someone else did that. It was not my responsibility to search her.†As they argue, I look at the Lieutenant’s badge. IECAMPO. Lieutenant Iecampo. I want to say something to him. What do I say? You hurt me. I will never forget how you hurt me. I will never forget how I asked you for help and you looked into my eyes and you hurt me more and then walked away. Never. But before I can say anything, “Take her away.†A black woman officer takes my arm and exclaims to herself, “That man is just a little too nervous!†That man. That angry man. That man who yells at the officers beneath him. Give that man a uniform and shiny badge. Give that man power. And see how he will he treat people in his custody. I’m taken to a metal detector and made to walk through several times, each time taking off something new— my kara (a steel bracelet, a Sikh article of faith), my shoes, and finally the clips in my hair. “My hands don’t work very well,†I explain. With trembling hands, I take down my hair, the claws, the rubber bands. And my long hair falls all around me. They confiscate everything, even the hair clips. I am led to a tall cage, given a paper cup for water, and locked inside. I see the water bottle at one corner of the cage, sitting on the outside, a little tube going from the water spout through the cage. I walk over to get water, and the three officers sitting close to the water bottle jump to their feet. “I’m just getting water!†I explain, trying to smile. They slump back into their chairs and return to their conversation. I drink. I sit down. I exhale. My wrists are throbbing. The ground is black and greasy. I lie down on the bench and look up at the sharp razor barbed-wire lining the top of the cage. I close my eyes and think of laying on the beach next to S. Was it only three days ago? And now the cold bench becomes the warm sand. And now the hum of the generator becomes the ocean waves. I can hear seagulls. I can feel the Pacific breeze. I can feel S. right next to me. And for a moment, I am there. I am free and I am not alone, I am loved and I did nothing wrong. Slam. My eyes shoot open. The cage door has slammed shut again. The journalist E. walks to me. “Are you okay?†I nod. We sit there. “Valarie?†an officer calls my name. It’s the first time I hear my name. I recognize her. She was standing next to Diez when the Lieutenant hurt me. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.†“Yes, I am now,†I say. Her badge reads Officer Lopez (or is it Perez?). She is Hispanic and she is smiling. (Later I want to thank Officer Lopez for treating me like a human being but cannot find her.) “They’re ready to take you through the process.†The process? I’m led out of the cage and to a set of tables. Officer Diez is next to me. I somehow feel close to her. I make myself believe that she will stand up for me. After all, she’s the only one who knows that I was just standing there. They take down my contact information again. Officer Harney with a Scottish accent goes through all of my property and lists the items on a voucher so that I can retrieve everything later. I thank him for being so thorough. They give me the pink copy of the voucher, but the ink did not bleed through. I think about asking her to rewrite it but hesitate. They put me in a different cage. I am by myself again. I see an officer eating a sandwich in front of me. I realize I’m hungry. I drink more water. I braid my hair. One by one, the girls are brought into the cage with me. E. and S. and M. and R. There are five of us. They talk about what happened. They are all young, the youngest is seventeen, the rest in their late teens and twenties. Another girl no one knows is brought in. She was sitting in the subway for twenty minutes, dressed in black, face painted in white, carrying a sign that read, “War Dead,†to remind people of all the Iraqi deaths. K. was arrested by a swarm of police officers when she got off. Later two more girls are brought in. They are medics, M. and E., who were at our protest and walked away when the police arrived. They were picked up three blocks away. When they asked the officer why they were being arrested, he said, “You don’t deserve to know.†The medics keep repeating that we should not to touch the ground because of asbestos and diesel oil contamination. We could get rashes and welts. This place used to be a bus depot. We’re there for hours. The girls chat about the arrest and what they know. I don’t think anyone really saw what happened to my hand. I don’t talk about it but show it to the medic E. who recommends I keep it still. Many of the girls have been arrested before in protests, Miami, Chicago, San Francisco. “These detention centers are nice,†one says. “There are portable bathrooms and fresh water.†We play a game. We talk about abortion and birth control. We sleep. Officer Harney calls me to the side and tells me that they have decided to confiscate my cameras and tapes as “arrest evidence.†“You’ll need a DA’s release to get it back.†That’s when it hit me that Officer Diez was not looking out for me. How could I trick myself into thinking that? They are confiscating my tape, because it shows officers forcefully clobbering down peaceful protesters and it documents me saying, “You did not give me a warning. I am a legal observer.†Evidence of my non-participation in the protest is on that tape. And now it’s confiscated. TRANSPORT TO CENTRAL BOOKING We’re held at the Detention Center until 2 PM. A group of officers come to our cage and one of them reads our names. He keeps looking at me and makes a joke of leaving me last. They cuff us again. I tell the officer that my hand is injured, and he does not make the cuffs very tight. We’re led single-file to the van. We pass an officer leaning back in his chair, whistling a circus tune. I stare at him hard, in disbelief, and he keeps right on whistling. We are told to face the van. “Closer to the van, ladies!†I move closer. The painted sign on the van says, “New York City’s Boldest.†We’re led onto the van. It is a high security transport vehicle lined with cages that fit two prisoners each. I slide in next to the journalist. We’re handcuffed and the sides of the cage are hard. “I hope it’s not a bumpy ride, because we won’t be able to brace ourselves!†she says. S. is sitting in the cage in front of us, quietly crying. The girl next to her calls out to the officer on the van, “Officer, this girl’s handcuffs are too tight. She’s crying. Her hands are turning blue. She won’t make the ride. Please can you loosen them?†Officer Lugo ignores us. All of us girls begin to raise our voices very politely. “It will only take a minute,†I plead. “Please change her cuffs.†The officer does nothing. We ask the bus driver. “I don’t care if she’s crying,†he says over and over again. “Her hands are turning blue! We’ll keep asking you!†we say. “You can talk all you want, I don’t care,†and with that, he slides headphones over his ears. I can’t believe it. As the van pulls out slowly, we turn to the officers on the ground and yell to them, “Officer, her cuffs are on too tight! She’s crying! Please stop the van!†The officer looks up, nods sarcastically, and chuckles to the guy next to him. “Unbelievable,†I say out loud. “How can people be so callous?†We try to distract S. “Breathe,†I tell her. “Keep breathing.†We are treated like criminals, as if we’re not human. We haven’t been charged with anything. I was just picked up off the street. How can they look at a woman in pain, listen to her plead, and do nothing? I look at my right hand. It is swollen and numb. For as long as they kept us in the cage at the Detention Center, they’re sure in a big hurry to get us to Central Booking. Police cars in front of us and behind us have their sirens on, and we’re speeding through all the red lights in Manhattan, along Chambers Street to Center. Outside I see people on the sidewalk stop and turn and gaze at the spectacle. I remember the times I’ve seen prisoner transport vehicles zoom by and wondered what kind of criminals were inside. Murderers? Rapists? Terrorists? And here I am. CENTRAL BOOKING At Central Booking, the NYPD hands us off to the Correctional Facility. They finally take off the poor girl’s cuffs but not until we’ve lined up and given our names again. We’re searched again and put into a cell with a television playing Court TV. The women officers outside are eating strawberries and grapes. I realize how hungry I am. Some time later, they give us sandwiches, two pieces of white bread with a piece of bologna or cheese, a carton of milk, and upon further request, boxes of Frosted Flakes cereal. We are all grateful and giddy with laughter. “It’s a feast!†And we eat as if we’ve never eaten before. They call us out, handcuff us along a chain of metal (as if we are very dangerous), and we’re led through the maze of the faded yellow correctional facility, up and down stairs, through long dreary corridors. A sign reads, “Slashing—Stabbing—Assault—Will Result in Arrest!†How about standing in the street? They fingerprint us, take our pictures again, note our medical condition, and search us again before leading us to a “holding pen.†Like cattle! I finally get a glimpse of my form and the charge reads “Disorderly Conduct—walking with others to block traffic on street.†Before taking us into the holding pen, Officer Garcia notices the ice pack on my hand (which cost me great effort to get from the medical consultant). Garcia asks if I want to go to the hospital. On the wall, a sign reads, “Being treated for medical attention at the hospital will not delay your trial.†He explains, “It will not delay OUR processing of your trial. But if you’re not here when we’re ready, your trial will be delayed.†“Isn’t that sign misleading?†I ask. “Do you want to go to the hospital or not?†I think for a moment. “No, I don’t need to. I don’t want to be separated from my group, and I don’t want to be delayed.†Officer Garcia leads me down to their little office. Several male officers are eyeing me, half-smiling, running their eyes up and down my body. I try to stare them back but lose the resolve. “You need to sign this form saying that you declined to go to the hospital, so that we’re not blamed for withholding the option,†says Officer Garcia. I ask, “Can I speak to a lawyer before I sign it?†Garcia’s superior officer, an older disgruntled white man, intercedes. “Why do you need to speak to a lawyer?†I respond, “So I know what I’m signing.†“It’s just a form saying that you refused to go to the hospital!†“I know, but I’d like to speak to a lawyer before I sign it.†“No, you can’t! You sign it or don’t sign it. If you don’t sign it, then we’ll write down that you’re non-compliant and refused to cooperate! If you want to take that route, that’s your choice!†He ruffles me, but I am persistent. “Let’s say I go upstairs and my hand swells. Does signing this form admit that you didn’t cause it or that I can’t go to the hospital?†He is exasperated. “No, it means that at this point, you don’t want to go to the hospital and we’re not responsible for keeping you from going. Just sign it.†The man is mean, and I am tired and give up. “Fine. You have to understand that I’ve been very mistreated today.†“Well, that’s what you get,†he retorts. I look at him hard and say in a steady voice, “I was a legal observer. I was picked up off the street. They used force.†“Then why are you from California?†he asks. “All you people coming into our city—†I sign the damn form. On the way out, I tell him, “I have the right to ask the question about the lawyer. That’s all.†Other than a few officers like him, the individuals who handle our processing at Central Booking are good-natured. Officer Leguda, the man who takes my fingerprinting, boasts that he booked Rosario Dawson, the actress from The 25th Hour, the week before. Ed, the old man who takes our pictures, teases us about what our mothers will think. And Officer N. Garcia, badge #8751, the woman supervising us in the holding pen, gives us motherly treatment, offering food every two hours and showing pictures of the horses she breeds. THE HOLDING PEN We are in the holding pen, and it must be 4 PM. We are told that we will be released in two to four hours, when our fingerprints have been processed. I am together with the girls again (E., R., M., S., M., E., K.). We sit on the floor, eating sandwiches, talking, trying to pretend it’s a slumber party. I say, “I have a question for all of you. Given how you were treated today, will you keep doing civil disobedience?†They all say yes. “Has this changed anything?†S. says, “I know that I’ll take it more seriously next time.†Another girl says, “I know to be more prepared.†M. confides in me, “I don’t know if it was worthwhile. I mean, I don’t know if people understood what we were doing. I don’t know if we got our message across. And they showed up so fast. And we got you and the other legal observer and the journalist and the medics arrested...†I interrupt, “No, I’m happy to be here with you.†She begins crying. She’s worried about the extent of her charges. Another girl gets off the phone and announces that their protest made ABC News, Nightline, and Indy Media. That makes M. feel better. Later I pose another question to the group. “When you all grow older, do you want to affect change from the outside or from the inside? I mean, protesting like this is definitely pushing on the system from the outside, but sometimes I wonder about its effectiveness. What about entering those institutions you see as unjust and trying to change them from the inside?†Many of them say that the inside is just too corrupt. They know people on the inside with good intentions who get sucked in and end up supporting the system. I think about how I feel. I want to do both, push from the outside and inside. I will keep supporting street protests and civil disobedience and grassroots activism, but at the same time, I recognize the need for a platform. I graduated from Stanford, I will attend Harvard Divinity, I am applying to law school. Whether I become a lawyer or academic or public servant (or try all in turn), I will be working within the very institutions I wish to help transform. Can I do it without compromising my ideals? Some of them suggest that it’s not possible. It is 5:30 PM. They call E.’s name. The journalist is being released, which means I must be next. At 8 PM, they call K. and she says goodbye. Later they call the medics M. and E. and they leave. At 9 PM, M. leaves. At 10 PM, S. leaves. Only R. and I are left. At 11 PM. they call R. She hugs me and leaves. Now I am alone. I have been in this cell for seven hours so far. Two women dressed as prostitutes are brought in, C. and M. They had been arrested for doing street theater on the sidewalk. They sleep. NO EXIT I try to sleep. The walls are faded yellow brick. There are yellow benches and gym pads laying on the floor. There are no windows. The toilet is hidden behind a little gate in the corner of the room, and the smell of bathroom fills the air. The florescent overhead lighting does not turn off. I think of No Exit by Sartre, where a man goes to hell and it’s a plush living room. But the lights never turn off and his eyes are taped up so that he can never blink and he is stuck forever with two women who only care about themselves. Hell is other people, so goes the story. I am glad I am not with selfish people. But at the same time, I start to go crazy. I am in a cell with top facilities, and even then, I feel like I’m going crazy. I pace. Who knows that I’m still here? Earlier I used someone else’s calling card to talk to my parents and they’ve told my friends S. and J. and S. who have told the National Lawyers Guild. When I talked to my parents, I kept my voice strong and did not tell them about my injuries, because I did not want them to worry. I felt safe as long as I was with the other girls. But now I am alone. Do they know I am still here? Why am I still here? I should have been released first! I was not even part of the action! Why are they holding me? Will they hold me overnight? I cannot feel my finger and thumb on my right hand. There are red gashes on my wrist. Will my hand be alright? When will they release me? I hear the officers talk about a group of seven hundred prisoners coming into the facility soon. Will I get lost in the shuffle? When will I get out? I have to get out. I can’t wait until they give out sandwiches again. Two pieces of bread and a piece of cheese, but it’s something to look forward to, something comforting. Try not to go to the bathroom. They can see you. I wish there was a window. I wish I could tell them I’m still here. I have no way of calling. I hear voices in the hallway, a new group of prisoners. I’m going to get lost in the shuffle! I run up to the bars and grip them tightly and plead with the new woman supervising us, “Please, could you check my status? I was a legal observer. Everyone else is gone. I’m alone. They said it would only be two hours, and I’ve been here for nine! It’s been fourteen hours since my arrest! Can’t you check for me?†That’s when I noticed another man there, an inspector, eyeing me and the officer. “I can’t check. Sorry.†I plead, “I can’t use the phone. It won’t accept coins.†“Did you try the other phone?†I run to it and put in the last coins I had and hear S.’s voice, the friend who was a legal observer with me this morning. “Don’t worry,†he says. “We have two NLG lawyers working to get you out right now.†Relief. The supervising officer comes over to the bars. “Why did you wait until that inspector came to complain? Why didn’t you tell me? Did you think I couldn’t help you? Did you think I was not capable of helping you?†She is accusatory and abrasive, peering down at me, her eyes crossed. It takes me awhile to realize that she thought I purposely made her look bad before her inspector. For the next ten minutes, I try to explain to her that he just happened to be there when I panicked about my detention. She doesn’t believe me. I am exhausted. This woman is only thinking about herself. Now it’s really beginning to feel like No Exit. TO UNDERSTAND I lie down on the mat and fall into a half-sleep. I open my eyes. I’m still here. I’m still in prison. I’m alone. I begin thinking of reports I’ve read of people detained after September 11, thousands of Muslims and Arabs detained and deported for missing paperwork. I begin thinking of the hundreds of men imprisoned without charge for years in Guantanamo Bay. I begin thinking of poor blacks, Latinos, and immigrants in US prisons. And those men tortured by US soldiers at Abu Ghraib. On an intellectual level, I have always recognized the existence of violence and injustice. I have chosen to study violence and its connection with religion in graduate school, and I have chosen to study law so that I will have the legal tools to respond to injustice. For the past three years, I have documented violence and prejudice against Sikh Americans in hate crimes after September 11. Victims of hate crimes and innocent people detained as suspected terrorists have looked into my eyes and used words like fear, loneliness, uncertainty, pain. I would nod in understanding. But I didn’t understand. How can anyone understand unless you’ve been treated like you’re not human? Unless you’ve been imprisoned in a place where nobody cares about you? And I only got a taste of it. What happens to people who are immigrants, enemies, combatants, non-citizens, with poor English, without support? Seeing me for the last time before I left California for graduate school this summer, my Stanford professor and mentor R. said to me: “You’re a rare person. You have a fierce outrage at injustices committed by people. And yet a deep and instinctive love for every person you meet.†I didn’t quite understand him then. Trusting and counting on the good in people always came naturally to me. But maybe it’s because I was never treated cruelly. Perhaps that’s why this has been especially traumatic. I am beginning to understand human cruelty for the first time. RELEASE At 12:30 AM, exactly sixteen hours after my arrest, they call my name. I have been in that single cell for nearly nine hours. They give me a DAT, a Desk Appearance Ticket, and make me sign something about appearing on September 22nd for an arraignment. At this point, I will sign anything. The time of release is 12:45 AM. An officer escorts me out the back. I cannot believe I am being released. The security guard in charge of lifting the gate just stands there, throwing his eyes up and down my body. One last harassment does not affect me. I am being released! I am exhausted. The gate rolls up and I walk into the cold New York night. People are waiting for me. A medic runs up to hug me and looks at my hand. “Your hand is icy cold. You need to get circulation to your fingers.†I don’t realize my hands are cold until she folds hers around mine. Warmth slowly comes back to my hand. I still have little feeling in my right thumb and pointer finger from the damage done by the handcuffs over sixteen hours ago. My friend S. arrives and hugs me. I can’t believe I’m out. I’m so glad I’m out. They take me around to the front of the building, where a crowd of people stand or sit on couches, waiting for protesters to be released. I see people who were arrested with me and embrace them. The medic N. gives me a Luna Bar and makes me wrap my hand around a cup of hot coffee. She makes me move my hand and wrist, and I can do it with difficulty. “You need to see the doctor tomorrow.†S. walks me down the street to a building where I can retrieve my property. But when the woman reads my form, she says, “Your property is being confiscated as arrest evidence.†“Yes, the cameras but not the rest of it! My phone, my credit card?†“All of it.†“Why?†She shrugs. S. puts me on a cab for home. It’s nearly 2 AM when I walk into B.’s apartment. She has stepped out to get me soup. I go to the sink and run my hand beneath hot water and the tears run down my face and I can’t stop convulsing. It all comes crashing down on me. How can people treat people that way. How. B. comes home and sees me and holds me and we are crying together. I want her to understand. How will she understand. But she is crying with me without any words; she understands. I love her so much. I’m going to take a hot shower now. I walk a few steps away and stop. I can walk wherever I wish to walk! I’m free. It’s like a new sensation. I take a hot shower and wash it all away and eat soup while B. watches. It is the best soup I’ve ever had. Hot and delicious. After I’ve eaten, I’m ready to tell B. everything and tears come again. “But I didn’t do anything wrong!†I repeat. I have been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, yet it’s hard to fall asleep. My mind goes back to me saying, “But I didn’t do anything wrong.†Where have I heard that before? Who said that? Suddenly I remember a dream I had nine months ago. I am being chased by the Bush administration for my protesting. I disguise my skin in white and apply to be an intern in Arnold Schwartzenager’s campaign office. They’ll never find me here! I work there for months before B. walks into the office, recognizes me, and says my name. My cover is blown. I take off running. The police squads are close in pursuit. I run into a Mexican restaurant, find the back room with all the mops, and hide in the space behind the open door. A lady with two children are there, and the children see me. I put my finger to my lips: “Shhhhh.†The children nod. The police flood the room. The lady notices that her children are distracted, sees me behind the door, and screams. The police fling the door aside and throw handcuffs on me, saying, “You’re going straight to the chair.†I know I’m going to die. I keep my eyes on the children and repeat, “But I didn’t do anything wrong. But I didn’t do anything wrong,†so that after I am dead, at least they will know. I go to sleep close to 4 AM. I don’t sleep long. I wake up immediately at 10 AM and cry as I brush my teeth. MEDICAL TREATMENT B. takes me to the NYU Emergency Room, and when the kind nurse checks me in and asks what happened, I break down in tears again when I tell her what the Lieutenant did to me. “They treat you like you’re not human.†In the waiting room, an orange juice commercial is on the television. How can people just sit and watch this orange juice commercial when thousands of people are going through what I went through this very second? It’s a ridiculous thought. But everything feels ridiculous. After a few hours, Dr. Veysman sees me. “No broken bones. Abrasion to the wrists. Red marks from the handcuffs. Tenderness. Impingement of the radial nerve but no permanent damage. Muscle soreness in right arm, shoulder, and neck.†He puts my right arm in a stilt and prescribes heavy painkillers every six hours. He hands me the name of a neurologist to see in two weeks. Dr. Veysman’s superior also sees me and says that I can get copies of medical records to file a police misconduct form. “But it will be useless,†he warns. “You have no broken bones, and visually, your wrist doesn’t look terrible. Nothing will come of it. I support you though. I would be out there protesting if I didn’t have to work. Thank you for your activism.†Leaving the hospital, a police car passes me. Painted on its side: “NYPD. Courtesy. Professionalism. Respect.†DIFFERENT B. and I have lunch at a cafe, and we do not speak. We just eat and watch people. Everything is new. Different. I see two people, a Chinese man, an Indian woman, sitting by themselves, eating and reading. Put him in a uniform. How will he treat her? Put her in a uniform. How will she treat him? People are capable of anything. B. leaves me in Union Square. I lie on the grass and call home. Staring up at the canopy of leaves, I tell my parents what happened and the tears are streaming down again. Our family friend A. tells me, “You need to cry. Don’t hold yourself back from crying. You need to go somewhere and just scream.†I tell him, “There’s nowhere to go. There’s no room I can go into, no door I can close. There are people all around me. Always. It’s the city. Hundreds of people are around me right now, and it’s the most privacy I’ve had.†He says, “You need to write.†I’m writing now. I cried while writing this. I have this fear that my writing still won’t convey my experience. If I read the cold facts of my arrest, a sixteen-hour detention wouldn’t sound like a terrible injustice, nor would sitting in a cell with running water and food. But when sixteen hours feels like three days, and you’re all alone, and you’ve been abused, and all you want is to get out and no one will let you out, it affects something deep inside of you. Right now, I cannot differentiate between the part of my treatment that was illegal, the part that was abusive, and the part that was mean. But added up together, it has done something to me that I’m still trying to understand and accept. The human capacity for cruelty. I understand it now. But I don’t think I’ll ever be able to accept it—nor do I want to. TODAY'S NEWS (SEPT 2, 2004) Today’s headline in the Villager reads, “Pier 57 pens are called ‘Guantanamo on Hudson.’†Though I think Guantanamo must be fifty times worse, I am still relieved to find coverage that calls these conditions unacceptable. In the article, Norman Siegel, formal director of the New York Civil Liberties Union, said that the delay in completing desk appearance tickets (what I got) is part of an attempt to “criminalize dissent... intended to discourage detainees from returning to protest demonstrations.†Well, it sure worked. I am staying miles away from anything that resembles a gathering of people. Earlier today (September 2) State Supreme Court Justice John Cataldo ordered the immediate release of over 500 protesters still held in prison. He fined the city $1,000 for every protester held past 5 PM today, a deadline he had set for their release. “These people have already been the victims of a process,†he said. “I can no longer accept your statement that you are trying to comply.†There were accusations that the city was deliberately holding the protesters longer so they would not be in the streets during President Bush’s acceptance speech tonight. Some fifty protesters have even gone on a hunger strike until everyone is released. Nearly 1,800 people have been arrested in anti-Bush protests in NYC so far. Their stories are finally coming out. An important note. It’s not as if arrest alone is a traumatic thing for me. I have been arrested before. On March 20 last year, when the war began, I helped organize and lead an intelligent and peaceful direct action at the intersection of 3rd and Folsom in San Francisco. I was arrested by police officers who understood why we were there, smiled at us because we smiled at them, and did their job smoothly. I was released almost immediately at the detention center. The San Francisco police force are well-trained in responding to nonviolent protesters. The NYPD is not. I realize now that orders from Mayor Bloomberg encouraged quick, forceful, and intimidating treatment of unpermitted protesters—while attracting as little attention as possible. “We no longer have the spectacle of police officers beating down protesters in front of cameras,†attorney Leonard Weinglass said. “But you do have more subtle forms of repression, as represented in this building [Detention Center at Pier 57].†(MSNBC News, “Protests accompany Bush acceptance speech, September 2, 2004) These news stories help me feel that my grievances are legitimate. I cannot be dismissed. Those abuses were real. And I’m not alone. Now to do something about it. I don’t know what yet. I began writing fifteen hours ago and have not stopped. Maybe this was the first step. END Photos by: Jeremy Bigwood