All Power to The People : Events : Green and Gray Daydreams at Fort Benning, Georgia

The sunlight shown brilliantly on that late November day. I was part of a group that was walking behind a large sign reading "follow me." When we reached the top of the hill in Columbus, Georgia, I glimpsed the tall fence that separated the city from Fort Benning. Barbed wire glistened at the fence's top. In my black turtleneck, I was warm, even though the calendar read November 23, 2003.

That tall fence was built to keep people like me off of government property. I believed, however, that the citizens owned government property because they paid for that property's upkeep, and that, as a citizen, I could walk on my property to inspect it anytime that I chose. Last year, I did not challenge the fence, as I needed to try to maintain some sort of journalistic objectivity. I had gone to Columbus to write an article for the Buffalo Alt Press about the annual rally and vigil held to commemorate the deaths of thousands who, the School of the Americas Watch organization charged, had been victims of graduates of the School of the Americas (now called "Western Hemisphere Institute of Security Cooperation").

A year had passed. My world had been covered with snow and filled with flowers and dazzling sunshine and bright golden leaves. The trees shed their leaves, and I came back to Columbus, Georgia. I had no article to write this time. With two others, I walked around the edge of the fence and climbed over a concrete barrier. I was thinking about Santiago Atitlan, Guatemala, where I had been three years before the 1990 massacre, and I thought about the lost children of El Mozote, El Salvador. I joined a group who were already kneeling on the ground. Not for a moment did I believe that my action was illegal. The government, however, disagreed with my assessment of the situation.

Turning my head to the left, I caught sight of a spectacular view. The trees in the distance appeared autumnal, though past their peak. Back home in Buffalo, the naked tree branches pointed at a steel-gray sky that promised winter. And, in Kentucky and Tennessee, two states that I had traveled through on my way to this place, I had found myself high up in the hills, looking into the expanse of green valley. I brought myself out of my green and gray daydreams and looked at the people on the other side of the fence. Photographers took our pictures. It was then that the military police and some local police (city police, I think) arrived. Apparently, they had been caught off guard, not expecting us to climb that hill and cross onto Fort Benning at that spot. The other entrance that people had used last year to cross had been shrouded by the military in some sort of black material. Anybody walking around the fence there would have walked into a black hole, not visible to support people or media. They were trying to annoy us at every turn. On Saturday, they blasted patriotic music so loud that we couldn't hear the speakers on the stage.

A bus parked behind us, and the police began binding our hands behind our backs with plastic handcuffs. The plastic handcuffs bore a strong resemblance to luggage tags. Before long, a police officer with a sweet-looking round face approached me and put one of my hands into the plastic strap. Gently, he moved my arm so that it was behind my back. I put my other hand behind my back for the policeman with the big, soulful eyes. He attached the plastic strap to my other hand, and then he tightened them. I winced. "Are they too tight?" Rae asked from the other side of the fence. "Yes," I said. There was no way for the plastic straps to be loosened.

Two police officers escorted me to the bus and helped me board it. The bus started up and took us through Fort Benning. The soldiers' housing seemed run down and not very homey. Other than a few family members of soldiers, I saw very few people walking the grounds. The military police officers in the bus looked very young, barely out of high school. The protesters had all introduced themselves to one another, but the military police declined, when invited. Apparently, people in the military are not permitted to share any personal information with members of the public.

The bus stopped in front of a hangar, and the doors opened. The military police removed one person at a time. It was a long wait. The handcuffs were digging into my skin. I wasn't sure how much longer I could endure the pain. Fortunately, a military police officer took pity on me and he cut off part of the handcuffs, leaving a strap on my left wrist. When it was my turn to be taken off of the bus, I was instructed to hold my hands behind my back. I hoped that whatever was inside was less painful than those plastic straps had been. The door was opened and a military person greeted me with barked instructions. Remove your shoes! No talking! I was directed to a corner, where a military person stood on my left and two U.S. marshals directly in front of me. "Look at the marshals when I speak to you," she said. I was, of course, looking directly at the speaker. I did not turn away, but spoke to her, even though I had already been commanded not to talk. "I have an auditory processing disorder, and if I don't look at your face, I will not understand you," I said. "OK, you can look at me," she said reluctantly. Then, Put your hands on top of your head! That was immediately followed by Put your shoes back on! I asked how I could have my hands on top of my head while putting my shoes on. I was told that I could use my hands. I was then relieved of my backpack and my watch and bracelet and the jacket that I had wrapped around my waist. All of my things were placed in a plastic garbage bag and my name was written in large letters on a tag. I was told to keep my identification in my pocket.

I was directed to another spot and ordered to look at the face of a military person who stood directly in front of me. I said something about how it would help if he were shorter. "No talking!" he barked. How did I get caught in this bad prisoner-of-war movie set with these terrible actors, I wondered. A military woman ordered me to spread my legs apart and hold my hands straight out to the side, with my palms facing upward. I thought that was a strange command but I complied. I was pretty sure that the military folks would use force if I showed even the slightest hint of being uncooperative. The woman began searching me, very thoroughly. She searched nearly every inch of my body, over and over again. She used a great deal of pressure in conducting this search. The only part of my body not subject to search was my face. I felt my arms drop. The man shouted, almost automatically, "Hold your arms up and face your palms upward." Reluctantly, I complied.

At last, the search was over. I was offered the opportunity to use the restroom. The woman officer who took me there told me not to close the door as she had to watch me at all times. After that, I was directed to wait on a bench until it was my turn to be interviewed by one of the persons sitting at a long row of computers. A U.S. marshal said, "turn left." I turned. "No, your other left," said the U.S. marshal, laughing. Without a watch on my left wrist and a bracelet on my right wrist, I could not differentiate right from left. Before long, a U.S. marshal directed me to one of the computers. The woman sitting at the computer was dressed in civilian clothing. This procedure was very slow.

At this station, I was also photographed and fingerprinted. I would be photographed and fingerprinted numerous times over the course of the day. I heard a lot of banging and clanging, and I wondered what that terrible noise was. I turned my head and saw that U.S. marshals were busily shackling protesters and that the shackles made a lot of noise on the metal bleachers where the protesters were directed to sit. The shackled protesters bore a strong resemblance to Ebenezer Scrooge's dead partner, Jacob Marley, who carried the chains that he had forged in a lifetime of evil deeds. But, I digress.

I was then directed to a table where a military person had some papers for me to sign. One of them had a photograph of me. I was smiling sweetly. I wondered where the picture was taken and how I could get a copy. I was directed to sign another paper. According to this paper, I had been apprehended on the charge of "criminal trespass," and that, for the next five years, I was not welcome at Fort Benning. I signed the "ban and bar" letter and was given my very own copy.

A U.S. marshal called out from the other side of the building, "Alice Gerard, come on down!" He sounded just like Bob Barker of The Price is Right. I am such a TV hound. I thanked the marshal for making me laugh. He fingerprinted me, yet again, and directed me to the last bleacher area, saying, follow the tape. I did, and I started to go around the circle, but I was told to go straight ahead. Another U.S. marshal was waiting for me. He told me to raise my arms "a little," and then he fitted a chain around my waist. "Oh my!" I said. He attached a set of handcuffs to a handcuff holder attached to the chain. "You ladies have got to get bigger wrists," he said, explaining how difficult it is to manacle small wrists in such a way that the wrists' owner would be unable to slip out of the handcuffs. After affixing the handcuffs to me, he then fitted me with leg irons. Looking like I was ready for the chain gang, I was directed to the bleachers to have a seat. Getting onto the bleachers was a very noisy business. And, sure enough, I could not slip out of the handcuffs. After waiting on the benches for a while, we were removed from this building. One individual suffered a bit of a disaster when, as he was being escorted out, his pants obeyed the law of gravity and fell to his ankles. He laughed about it and so did everyone else. The U.S. marshals helped him get his pants back up around his waist. We were all put on a bus and driven, via the scenic route, to the Muscogee County Jail.

The U.S. marshals escorted us into the jail, where we clomped in our chains past a room full of women. They were cheering and they gave us the thumbs up sign. The U.S. marshals then turned us over to the sheriff's department. The sheriff's deputies removed the shackles, which the U.S. marshals collected before departing. At the jail, we had to sign more forms and answer more questions. "Are you thinking about committing suicide?" "No." (was that the mental health exam????) I was promised a phone call "soon." At this point, the men and women were separated. We then had to give up our clothing and our shoes and change into a jail uniform and jail slippers. The men wore dark blue uniforms with bright orange slippers, and the women wore brown pants, a dark orange shirt, and beige slippers. Printed on the back of our shirts in large white letters were the words "Muscogee County Jail." We resembled large pumpkins. We then were placed in a room marked Female/Detox, despite the fact that none of us was inebriated. A sheriff's deputy brought us dinner. It actually was a fairly good meal, not especially warm, but much better than the cold and barely edible offerings at the Erie County Holding Center back in January (after the air force recruitment office sit-in on the day of the president's state of the union address).

A doctor did some sort of medical exam and stuck a needle into our arms. I thought that it was some sort of test to see if we were drunk, but he said that it was for a TB test. I never saw him again, and since I showed no sign of a reaction, I have to assume that the result of the test was "negative." The sheriff's deputies took us back to the Female/Detox room, even though we all appeared to be quite sober. After sitting there for a while, we were removed, a few at a time. My name was called out and I was told that I was going to be taken "upstairs." I asked, "Is this when I get to make a telephone call?" "You haven't made your call yet?" "No." I was immediately led to the telephone. The number for the SOA Watch legal team was posted prominently on the wall. The SOA Watch folks wanted to know my name, where I was, and how I was, and if there was anyone whom they could call on my behalf. I gave them a few phone numbers.

The upstairs accommodations, where my companions and I were to spend the night, were interesting. It consisted of a "day room," and small rooms on two levels, each with two iron shelves and a toilet and sink. The entire area was called a "pod." We were to place plastic mattresses and bedding on top of an iron shelf. At first, there were eleven of us. Then we were joined by seven young women, some of whom had been in jail since Saturday morning. All of them had been arrested for getting lost at checkpoints at Fort Benning or for making a wrong turn onto the fort. They were on their way to the protest, but they ended up in jail instead. One of the passengers had a psychiatric disorder. Her companions said that she had a severe panic attack when she was brought to jail and was separated from them and from her medication and placed in the "psych ward." Before long, that young woman was brought to us, and her friends greeted her warmly. A corrections officer came in to count us at six o'clock and she told us that she would return for another count at eleven-thirty.

We sang and told stories and got to know one another. Kathy Kelly told us about life in Iraq before, during, and after the war. She said that, one day, she had visited a children's hospital to give out harmonicas. One little boy was too sick and showed no interest in the instrument. When Kathy came to visit again, the child asked for his harmonica. She found one for him. The harmonica made him happy, Kathy related. But, at a later visit, she heard that the boy had died. To avoid causing distress to the other young patients or to their families, Kathy said that she could not cry or show any sign of sorrow at the loss of her young friend. Kathy sang children's songs in Arabic for us. It turned out that Kathy was not the only member of our group to have been in Iraq during the war. One member of our group had been a human shield at that time.

I had just drifted off to sleep when the corrections officer called for the eleven-thirty count. All of us had to return to the day room for the roll call. I then went back to bed. Before we went to sleep, we sang a verse of "Amazing Grace." Coffee was delivered at four o'clock in the morning, and breakfast was delivered at five o'clock in pale green containers with deep wells. Shirley and I laughed uproariously at the containers. The color was very silly and, as Shirley pointed out, "I never imagined that I would eat out of the sink." All of the coffee drinkers agreed that the coffee did not taste even remotely like the real thing. A cup of tea was just a fantasy at the jail. We were counted again at six o'clock.

People were asking the corrections officers for their medications, but that turned out to be a problem area. The medications were not delivered in a timely way. We sat down as a group and tried to figure out how to address the problem. But we were then taken out of the pod and brought downstairs to await our turn in court. We waited and waited. The drivers and passengers were taken to court first. All of us agreed that was quite fair. When they got into court, they were shocked to find out that the charges against them were not dismissed. Bond was set for the drivers at $1,000 each, and the passengers were released on their own recognizance. And several passengers who had been released earlier came into court to support their friends and were shocked to find out that there were still charges pending against them. Kathy told us how she had been hogtied by the military types when they decided that she wasn't cooperative enough during that initial search. I had not seen it but the military types had probably already untied her before bringing me into the hangar.

Kathy was ill. She was suffering from the effects of a migraine headache. We were all tired. Despite that, we started singing. We sang about war and peace, life and hope. And we sang in parts: melody, alto harmony, and high descant. Later, we were told that the people in the hallway could hear us sing. It sounded as if the choir had been arrested. The sheriff's deputies finally delivered medications to the women who needed them. They seemed very happy to have their pills. At last, my name was called and I went out into the hallway with a few other protesters and with the U.S. marshals. A U.S. marshal gave us instructions on how to behave in court. He said not to wave to anyone or to hug anyone or to hold conversations, except with our attorneys and other members of our legal team. We were brought into court and directed to seats. I looked at the audience, and saw Bill and Patrick and Marie. I was so happy to see them. The U.S. magistrate, G. Mallon Faircloth, was seated in a position that placed him well above the rest of the people in the courtroom. He almost seemed like the great judge in the sky. He told a defendant, "Because of the distance of your home and because of the nature of the offense with which you are charged, you are considered to be a flight risk. Bond is set at $1,000."

That was a lot of money. I began to wonder if I might be stuck in jail on Thanksgiving. I had talked to my mother on the night before night on one of the phones that was available in the pod for making collect calls. "Oh, Alice," she said. "Thanksgiving without you isn't Thanksgiving." And then it was my turn to see the judge. He had the prosecutor read the charge to me, and he asked me if I understood it. Criminal trespass. Maximum penalty: six months in federal prison and a $5,000 fine (ouch). Yes, I understood. After he asked me a few questions and after my attorney talked to him privately ("approached the bench"), he said, "Because of the distance of your home and because of the nature of the offense with which you are charged, you are considered to be a flight risk. Bond is set at $1,000." Magistrate Faircloth then set a tentative trial date of January 26.

I was directed back to my seat, and a few people from the SOA Watch legal support team explained to me what was happening. They told me that, most certainly, anyone who wanted to get out of jail would be out no later than Wednesday morning. They assured me that my mother would be able to enjoy her Thanksgiving with her family, including me. The U.S. marshals removed a few of us from the courtroom and turned us back over to the sheriff's deputies. I was leading the parade. With my learning disability, I was probably the wrong person for that role. The sheriff's deputy said, "Turn right." I turned, and faced a closed door. "Your other right," he said, laughing, as he led us to the elevator. The sheriff's deputy who was operating the elevator told us that he was a very nice person and that he thought that he had been very good to us. We said that we were very nice people, too. "But you're going back to jail," the sheriff's deputy said. We were returned to the pod. The corrections officer said, "Welcome home, ladies." I wondered exactly how long that pod was going to be my "home."

A few hours later, a corrections officer called out a bunch of names, including mine, and said that we were bonded out. I was quite happy and ready to go home at once. But the Muscogee County Sheriff's Department had other plans for me. Getting released from jail was a time-consuming process that involved signing forms, changing clothes, lining up for instructions and a last inspection, and collecting personal items. But, by 4:30 p.m., Monday, the automobile passengers, who had been released on their own recognizance, and everyone except the three individuals who had refused to permit anyone to post bond for them were released from jail. We marched out in single file and were greeted with hugs. We danced, gleeful that we were free. SOA Watch staff members handed us forms to fill out and information sheets to keep. Our attorney spoke to us, too. Eventually, the sheriff's deputies told us that we were blocking the sidewalk and would have to leave. Soon, I was in a car with my great friends, who had waited for me and who had used their own money to get me out of jail. Nighttime approached and I stared out the car window at the starry sky. I was going home. A week later, I sat in a coffee house, drinking an Italian soda and listening to traditional Celtic music, played by a small group of musicians. Two of the men sang a humorous song about an Irish activist who had been put into prison. At the end, his dream was to be locked up amongst the 75 inmates of the women's prison. As I listened to the music, mostly instrumental, I drew a picture in my sketchbook. I thought about the torture survivors that Eric LeCompte had described at Friday evening's Pax Christi meeting and I thought about their brilliant, shrill screams in the night. I knew that everything was going to be OK for me. I was at peace. I wished that those torture survivors could find some sense of peace, too, despite those painful memories that they carried with them everywhere.

Music and art. I was back in my element. I truly had come back home, even if just for two months.

(to be continued, after January 26, 2004)