From the other side of the wall: Letter #2 from Tamara
February 11, 2010
These letters sent from inside the gray, cold prison of Brians are an attempt to return, in some way, all the warmth and affection to those who, with their support and solidarity, have managed to kill the everyday loneliness and routine concealed by imprisonment; to those who are giving me so much strength and vitality right now, and crossing the barrier that separates us to make sure I never lose the feeling of freedom; to all those who are showing how a simple pen and paper can restore one’s hope and desire to keep fighting; to all those who are struggling against the business of torture, punishment, and repression represented by prisons.
And to all of you . . . what can I tell you that you don’t already know? How struggle is repressed? How voices are walled in? How their filthy laws control our lives?
I could tell you how, on December 15, 2009, before the sun went down, a group of Civil Guards entered my home, took whatever they wanted, and abducted me.
I could try to explain what I felt while listening to cries of pain and fear from a jail cell in a police station.
I could pass along the experiences that some prisoners have shared with me, in which they speak of humiliation, of torture, of helplessness, of solitude.
I could talk about what I’ve been able to observe from this side of the wall, like how the “Penitentiary Business” profits from the people it captures, and how they call this “reinsertion” (strange word).
I could illustrate, with some events I’ve been able to witness during this month-and-a-half without freedom, how the prison health system functions, how methadone and other legal drugs are its best methods of control, and how very little people’s health and lives matter.
I could talk about the sadness I feel in the mornings, when I hear so many say “one day less” instead of “one more day.”
I could tell you that, behind these walls, people are being isolated and destroyed.
But . . . all this rings a bell, right? We’ve heard it all before, we’ve been through it all, it’s all happened to others many times, we know all about it. We know that we find ourselves inside an unjust system that sentences us to a “non-life” in which the false idea of “well-being” blinds and condemns people, in which work shackles us, their laws control us, and prison represses and punishes us.
I refuse to fall victim to all this, and even now I don’t feel like one. I want to be and always will be their “problem.” And that’s why what I really want to get across with these words is the desire for us to keep fighting, to not surrender, to continue coping, to try—at least—to breathe freely and feel alive.
I think of you and I feel alive, free, and strong, and that’s why your solidarity has managed to be stronger than the bars of their cells.
For that reason, this letter is addressed to all those who—every day—make the struggle worthwhile, to all the people being held captive in these Death Camps, to all those struggling inside and outside the prisons.
Accept this sisterly embrace, filled with Freedom and rebellion.
FREEDOM FOR ALL PRISONERS!
DOWN WITH THE PRISON WALLS!
LONG LIVE ANARCHY!
- Tamara (January 26, 2010)