From the NATO5 in Chicago to Mark Adams in New York to pending felony charges across the country, occupy activists are becoming increasingly familiar with the insides of prison cells. This is a growing collection of our #JailSolidarity stories.

Chicago, IL - Solidarity Through a Plexiglass window: An occupier who makes weekly visits to the NATO 5 brings a friend who has never visited prison before.

Chicago, IL - A visit to the NATO 5: An activist from Occupy Chicago finds solidarity even behind locked doors and iron bars.

New York, NY - A Visit with Mark Adams, J26, Part One: An activist visits Mark Adam’s an occupier sentenced to forty-five days in jail for his involvement in D17 at Duarte Square in New York City.

New York, NY - A Visit with Mark Adams, J26, Part Two: An activist visits Mark Adam’s an occupier sentenced to forty-five days in jail for his involvement in D17 at Duarte Square in New York City.

Read all our past #JailSolidarity stories here.

Chicago, IL -The area around 26th and California has become a very familiar place in the past few months. There’s a Popeye’s at the corner and a little Hispanic man who is always selling drinks and candy bars. The courthouse is close to that corner, although the jail itself goes on for over half a mile. A bit further south is the main entrance to the jail. This is where those who are able go to post bond, as well as the entrance to several divisions for visitors. Saturday mornings there are usually lines of at least 50 men, women, and children, all waiting to see husbands, sons, friends. (There is only one women’s division and its entrance is a block west.)

On the east side of the street there is a strip of grass. People are often sitting, waiting-usually for hours-for loved ones to walk out of the gates, always looking over their shoulders to make sure they don’t miss them. Sometimes when you’re in the area you get the pleasure of witnessing one of these reunions. People run into the street to embrace their families with smiles and sometimes even tears.

Even further south is the entrance to another division-Division 10-where two of my friends, two of the NATO 5, are currently being held. I go to visit one of them, Sabi, usually once a week and I can tell the guards are beginning to recognize me.

Two blocks further is 31st Street, the southernmost point of the jail. Hang a right and you’re on your way to Division 9, Supermax, the division that holds “the worst of the worst.” This is where my other three friends, the rest of the NATO 5, are being held.

After the first round with security, you are let out into a parking lot. There is one small building, the entrance to the lair. On your way to the doors you sometimes see prisoners on what is almost an enclosed porch. They are sometimes playing basketball, sometimes just standing against the fence, taking in the fresh air and sunshine.

Once inside the building you are led down a half-spiral staircase and told to wait behind a red line nearly 15 feet from the desk. Sometimes there is a line of people and sometimes there isn’t; either way you will have to wait behind that red tape line for what feels like forever, but in actuality is usually about two minutes.

After you tell them who you want to see, you silently pray that nothing is wrong, like the division being on lockdown or your friend being in the hole. After holding your breath while they type away at a computer for a few minutes, you are told to have a seat and they’ll call your friend’s name.

This is always the most agonizing part. The seats are these big stone blocks and all there is to read are signs warning against property destruction to the already-broken water fountains, the list of prohibited items, and the list of artículos prohibidos en español. Cell phones are not allowed, so most of the time people make quiet conversation. The walls are gray concrete and the floors dark tile. Sometimes the room is so crowded that people have to resort to standing or sitting against the wall by the men’s bathroom. Yes, in theory it’s truly wonderful, that so many people are keeping connections with those on the inside, but I doubt you’ve had to sit on the floor of a county jail waiting room two inches from the men’s bathroom.

My first time visiting was not long after the guys were arrested. The division still had this weird system because they didn’t want them interacting with others, so one of the three would take up an entire visiting room, just him and his visitor. Because of this I had to wait nearly four hours to meet Jacob (aka Brian Church, who goes by his middle name). While I was waiting one of the guards came in holding a blue jersey with white lettering that said “Super Maxxx” in a scripty font.

When I finally got to meet Jacob he came in and gave me this sort of confused look as he sat down, hands cuffed in neon orange, a graying thermal under his bright yellow jumpsuit, his freckles matching his red-orange hair.

“The worst of the worst.”

The entire time I had to fight the tears that were welling up. He probably thought that I was crazy, or that I was PMSing, nearly crying over a person I had only seen behind Plexiglass or in the newspaper.

This week I brought an old friend of mine, Cari, to meet Jacob. She is not an activist and has never even been to a protest, but she wanted to come along. We walked to Division 9, were greeted with a nice pat-down and walk through metal detector number one, and then headed toward the entrance of the lair. This time there were no yellow jumpsuits playing basketball or pressing their faces as close to fresh air as possible.

After waiting behind the red tape line, Cari and I register with a guard who keeps cracking jokes about the Olive Garden and their breadsticks, while on the other side of the room mothers are trying to control their children as they wait to see their husbands for the first time in a week for a mere 30 minutes, and that’s if they’re lucky.

After signing in, we sit on the cold concrete slab, a relief after being in nearly 100 degree weather outside. Twenty minutes of waiting and one of the guards begins yelling names. I do not hear Jacob’s, but she does call out “Chase, Jared!”-another of the NATO 5-and my other friend excitedly gets up and waits in line behind metal detector number two.

Another 30 minutes, and she calls another group of people. This time I hear “Church, Brian!” and Cari and I go wait in the line. We are told to go up to the third floor. When we get there most of the seats are taken, though there is one at the end where we wait until they bring Jacob out.

Not long after we enter, one of the guards opens the door and yellow jumpsuits start shuffling into the room, looking for a face they recognize and then sitting across from it, through a sheet of Plexiglass.

When Jacob comes in, I wave and smile to him and he sits down. Same neon orange handcuffs, same bright yellow jumpsuit, same freckles that match his red-orange hair. We start talking and catching up. He says he is doing okay and before long he asks Cari her name and introduces himself. She says, in a breaking voice, “Hi, I’m Cari.” I look over to see that her shaking hands are trying to shield her eyes, and I am immediately brought back to my first visit with Jacob.

For the next 15 minutes, Jacob and I talk about Occupy and Anaheim. I ask him if he needs any books and he asks me if I can print out pictures from May Day and the FTP march he went on only hours before he was arrested.

As we are leaving the visiting room, I ask Cari what she thought of her first jail visit, and she says, “It was okay. He totally doesn’t belong in there, though. He just seems like some kid. How old is he again?”

“Twenty,” I respond.

Chicago, IL-For someone who’s never been arrested, I sure spend a lot of time at Cook County Jail lately.

As part of Occupy Chicago’s ongoing jail solidarity effort for the NATO 5, who are facing terrorism charges, I have been attending as many court dates as my schedule allows. Most of these court dates are just for updates, or to set new court dates, but being there is an important show of support. At the first few I attended we pushed our luck a bit by standing and raising fists in solidarity, so much so that the judge has taken to reading a decorum order before calling any of their cases. He claims it’s not really aimed at us, just meant as a point of information for “people who only know about court from TV,” but since it uses words like “conduct of solidarity” and “protest,” I tend to take it personally.

Here’s what a NATO 5 court decorum order looks like:

All persons in the courtroom must remain silent during all proceedings. There will be no talking, noise making, standing, kneeling, waving, hand raising or other conduct of solidarity, camaraderie, protest, approval or disapproval in the courtroom or in the hallway outside the courtroom.

Going to court is always a bit of a hassle, but worth it to me in the end, even just to see a glimpse of them through the tinted glass that separates us from the courtroom itself. It makes the long drive, seemingly random security procedures, and waiting through other cases worthwhile.

Visiting hours for the NATO 5 always conflict with work and other obligations of mine, so I haven’t been able to see any of them until this week, when I had a few days off. For me, spending my time off making visits to friends in jail is the new normal. I put out the word that I was planning a visit for Monday afternoon and found two small groups of friends also planning to visit. I met up with the earlier group and we left our stuff at an occupier’s apartment within walking distance of the jail and set out on our way. (Note to everyone: being without my cell phone for several hours makes me twitchy.)

We walked about a mile to Division 9, the maximum security jail where the original NATO 3 are being held. It was a cool 97 degrees, abundant sunshine and humidity making us sweaty within minutes. We walked in holding only our IDs but were still patted down and sent through a metal detector. Inside we waited to sign in for our visits - I was seeing Jared Chase. I’ve never met any of them personally, but have been sending books from the Occupy Chicago library and Jared had sent me a personal thank you. So I figured he would be my first visit. When they asked me what my relationship to him was, I wanted to say “comrade-in-arms” but settled for the safer description of “friend.” Then we sat on stone-tiled benches and waited to be called. There was a lot of bureaucracy and waiting involved, which isn’t surprising, but does start to feel mind-numbing after a bit. When I was finally called I walked through another metal detector, got patted down again, then made my way to an elevator that took us up to the visitation room.

The visitation room has no air conditioning, and I soon felt sticky and claustrophobic. It is a long, narrow room made entirely of gray concrete, barely large enough to accommodate friends and family on one side of the Plexiglas, up to 10 or 12 prisoners on the other. With no phone I had no idea what time it was, because who wears a watch anymore? It’s a tiny taste of what prisoners feel all the time, miserably uncomfortable and cut off from the outside. I must also admit that I felt my privilege, seeing the racial breakdown of the room. The number of young children visiting their fathers — and how routine it seemed for them — was heartbreaking.

Eventually a group of prisoners was brought in, and most of the people I had come up with had their visit. No Jared. I waited through the visit, which lasted 20 minutes or so. Then waited for the guards to exchange one batch of prisoners for another. Still no Jared. It had been at least an hour at this point, so I went back downstairs and asked at the desk. They told me to go back up and wait. I saw my friends in the outer waiting room, already finished with their visit to Jacob, another of the NATO 5, and felt bad for holding things up. But I would have felt worse if Jared came out for a visit and nobody was there. So up I went.

I sat in that sweltering room through another prisoner switch and watched as a third batch started filing in. By this point I had become friends with some of the other visitors, who were impressed at how long I’d been kept waiting. They began flagging down the guard and asking him when Jared Chase was going to be brought in. Soon some of the prisoners whose visitors weren’t there yet chimed in as well. It was a surprising show of support to me, all these strangers wanting to make sure I got my visit.

About halfway through the third visit, they finally brought Jared in. I had been getting discouraged and wondering if it was worth sticking around, but one look at him gave me my answer. I introduced myself and he thanked me again for sending books. He is quiet-spoken and it was sometimes hard to hear him over the noise of 10 other visits in progress, but we managed to have a good conversation. He told me what other books he’s been reading and asked for updates on the student protests in Montreal and the impending teachers’ strike in Chicago. He hadn’t heard much about the police violence and subsequent protests in Anaheim, so I filled him in. He told me he grew up in Anaheim. He wanted to make sure the others were getting visits as well, and I was touched at his concern. It would have been a lovely conversation had there not been a window between us, had he not been cuffed, had we both been free to leave the building.

But parts of the conversation were more difficult. He told me that he’d been “in the hole” (solitary confinement) all of last week, and hadn’t been allowed visitors. The reason they gave him was that there “weren’t enough cells.” I could tell that he didn’t buy that excuse, and neither did I. He looked sad and a bit lost when he said, “I didn’t even do anything, and they put me in the hole all week.” I wanted to give him a hug, because he looked like he needed it.

He told me he’s getting lots of letters, and he really appreciates them. He’s trying to write back to everyone but currently isn’t allowed to have a pen, due to a prisoner stabbing last weekend that put them on lockdown. Hopefully he’ll be able to resume writing letters soon. Looking in his eyes as he told me this, I felt a mixture of sadness and outrage. This man doesn’t belong in a place where pens are considered weapons, and not in the metaphorical mightier-than-the-sword sense. He belongs in the streets with us, changing the world.

I reassured him that we haven’t forgotten them, that we will continue to visit and write and send books and show up for court. But I could see that being in jail, and periodically in solitary confinement for no apparent reason, is wearing on him. As our shortened visit drew to a close, he thanked me for messages of solidarity from other occupied cities and gave me a solidarity fist on his way out.

I want to encourage anybody who is able to please visit those who are still incarcerated while they fight these ridiculous charges. I know the above story is full of frustration and bureaucracy, but it’s so necessary and so worth it in the end. They are trying to break these guys down by randomly imposing solitary confinement on them and making it nearly impossible for them to see visitors. But we won’t let the games they play keep us from supporting our comrades.

We will not forget them. We will not waver in our support, no matter what they do to discourage us. Our strength lies in our solidarity.

To learn more about the NATO 5 and our jail solidarity efforts, visit http://nato5.occupychi.org

To learn more about the Occupy Chicago library’s efforts to coordinate book donations to the NATO 5 or to donate shipping funds, visit http://ochilibrary.wordpress.com/books-for-the-nato-5/

-Rachel Allshiny-

Editors note: Mark Adams is serving a forty-five day jail sentence for his participation in an occupy wall street event. This story orginally appeared on Support Mark Adams.

Rikers Island Correctional Facility, NY - At 6:30 in the morning on Saturday, we met at the Queens Q100 bus stop moments before the heat struck. The bus comes frequently about every 20 minutes, but usually earlier than the scheduled time. We piled on with a group of predominantly female-presenting people carrying coffee, newspapers, and magazines with some children tagging along. It was an easy 20-minute drive out through Queens. We took the time to check in with one another, preparing mentally and emotionally for what we expected to be terribly oppressive conditions, and also to learn a song with which we serenaded Mark.

The theme park-style signs surprised us with retro lettering inviting us to “Enjoy your visit to Rikers!” which is situated just a few meters from LaGuardia Airport. The idea of people flying freely around the world right over the heads of 14,000 trapped individuals seemed like torture. Another sign read: “Bullying or intimidation of any kind by anyone of any age will not be tolerated. Period.”

The atmosphere going in was unexpectedly positive, complete with some smiling corrections officers; the first locker room was an open atrium, sunshine pouring in. We needed quarters to deposit our things in the locker and surprisingly we got them back at the end. We went through the first security check like standard airport scans, removing shoes, nothing metal permitted. Unfortunately, the harmonica we brought was not allowed in as a gift.

There are several boarding gates for the various housing centers of the prison complex, each with roughly 35 seats and 1 TV. The one to go to Mark is EMTC, and Fox News was on. We must have our photos taken and fingerprints scanned for our passport for the day before boarding a shuttle bus, so we tracked down a check-in desk with attending corrections officers, since the one in our gate was unattended. They asked each of us our relationship to Mark. We told them definitively, “Friend.” We went back to our gate, and waited for not even 10 minutes, boarded the bus to the Eric M. Taylor Center, the second stop.

We noted the spools of barbed wire atop the relatively flimsy chain-link fence lining all the grey buildings. All the female-presenting visitors, predominantly of color, were very chatty and upbeat, laughing with the officers, making bunny ears on the bus driver. Children played with the security trays on their heads. A few sitting nearby in the same waiting room asked us if it was our first time and made jokes about the different officers who check the inmate packages. They were going to visit partners, sons, husbands, and were very familiar with the system. It all felt oddly normalized. They said, “Saturday morning is the best time to visit, you just breeze right through.”

We went through another security check and then individual checks in a private room, asked to pull our socks down, unzip and lower our pants, run our fingers along our underwear and pull our pockets inside-out. Female-assigned visitors should know that it is a requirement to wear a bra, though underwire will set off the metal detectors. One visitor told us a story of one time forgetting to wear theirs when visiting their son and consequently forced to meet in a room separated by glass.

We waited in another room, this time similar to a hospital waiting room, for about 20 minutes facing a large TV blaring pop news about Tom Cruise. Those who had visited many times told us, “No matter how early you get here, they never bring them out until 9:00 a.m. on Saturdays.”

Soon enough we were all called and led into a colorful basketball gym with rows of plastic chairs in every Crayola color. There was a caged children’s corner with an impressive mural of characters like Dora the Explorer and Big Bird, of Super Grover holding up an NYPD badge in the sky. Next to the officer surveillance booth which sits behind a tinted window, was a mural of the Manhattan skyline with the Twin Towers still intact.

A CO (corrections officer) shouted, “Go home everyone! It’s too hot!” to the laughter and mock defiance of some visitors and indifference of others.

Then, solemn men in grey DOC jumpsuits began to file in and there was our Mark, not looking up to see us until about 20 feet away and then the beard slowly revealed a smile. We pulled him into massive loving hugs but were quickly told we had to sit down. We grasped his hands across the tiny round table for the entire visit. At first Mark seemed very small, he kept his head down and tears streamed from his eyes while he expressed his sense of loss to us. He said he doesn’t like who he is in here – that he feels he lost something the day he was taken to prison. He said he has not discovered anything good about himself from being here, that “Nothing good should live in here.” He wants to leave this feeling behind when he comes out. It was very hard to see his obvious pain but we were encouraged by Mark’s awareness of his emotions and his openness to share with us, both the dark and the light. We discussed what skills he has developed to survive and get through this time and we assured him that he will find the old Mark again, and that he won’t have to bear the weight by himself, that he will have all his friends to hug any last bit of sadness out of him when he is free. We promised all the support, rehabilitation and love he may need when he rejoins us.

We sensed that he really wanted to talk so we mainly listened and chimed in when it felt right. He quickly perked up and started to make eye contact again, his face still holding a healthy glow and the twinkle in his eyes has not faded. He talked a lot about being hungry and looking forward to eating again but he is dedicated to his hunger strike, sharing his food with other inmates at mealtimes. The doctors are attentive and concerned so he has two visits with them a day and is being well looked-after. He has the support of one doctor in particular who sympathizes with the symbolic meaning of the strike and tells Mark it will help him get rid of toxins. He has lost some weight, about 8-10 lbs but said he gains some of it back in water weight quickly. He mostly keeps to himself, stays inside reading and sleeping. He avoids going out to the yard for exercise because of some dangerous fights after which he has witnessed people come back bloodied with injuries. Although, we were very happy to hear he has a bunch of people looking out for him through individual OWS members’ connections with gang members and skinheads. There is a team of unlikely guardians watching his back.

Mark did describe concerns with his cellmate who has been transferred with him several times, even though inmates are usually transferred individually. He described him as being very inquisitive, asking for Mark’s phone number and email so they can be in touch when they get out. He asks lots of questions about Mark’s activities and politics. Mark chooses to remain quiet and keep to himself.

He is getting a reputation for the amount of letters he receives from all around the country – Texas and Alabama and Oklahoma – and even books from Vancouver, Canada. One CO cheered him on once he found out he was from Occupy Wall Street. Mark loves getting letters and he even received a lock of hair from Diego and relished its softness but he discourages others from sending hair. Rather, he encourages everyone to grow their hair out as he hopes to grow his beard out to reach his navel like in its glory days when he lived in Virginia.

He has received so many books that his small plastic bin is now full, but is very thankful for what everyone has given although he had hoped for more Anarchist theory rather than Communist. He is currently reading a book about the Spanish Civil War and made jokes about how the anarchists are criticized by the author for sitting in circles and talking too much rather than fighting the war. Mark is disappointed at the lack of a library at Rikers. He was hoping he could leave his books there when finished, and when he leaves. He noted that books left around are thrown away by COs and staff rather than shared with inmates.

He is starting to write back, primarily to strangers from across the country who are writing him. He would like to get more envelopes but hopes no one will be disappointed if they don’t hear back from him. We assured him that no one expects anything in return.

He was very curious to hear about what’s going on with OWS, and loved to hear about the protests at Trinity and the sleep-ins. We told him how everyone’s Facebook profile photos and Twitter avatars are now mostly either his face or red squares. He was delighted and surprised to hear his Facebook page is still active and that it’s filled with messages of love and solidarity. Keep posting on there so he can read through them all when he gets out!

He hates to be away from OWS and plans to jump right back into actions with his “family” although he hopes he can contribute without getting arrested. He is very worried about his open court cases where he will face the same DA and judge who sentenced him. He has gone to court for one case already while in prison and he described it as a painful 13-hour long process that he does not want to endure again.

Overall, Mark was extremely optimistic about getting out, and brightly announced he’s already done 15 days, already talking about the party he wants to have – full of food (though we reminded him he should probably carefully ease back into eating,) his friends, and Care Bears. He misses his bicycle but was relieved to hear that it was rescued by TimesUp! and looks forward to riding again. He spoke fondly of his going-away party at the Living Theatre and joked how the theater people there were confused by an anarchist party where people dance to Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys. He is so thankful for this night and thinks back on it with much joy. He loved that there is an Otter Solidarity Group coordinating support efforts and laughed after hearing about the detailed forms people had to fill out to be able to visit him.

There will be little way of knowing when or where he will be released – which, if all goes well, will be on the 15^th of July. From what Mark has heard, releases usually happen after the 5pm dinner, sometime in the middle of the night, after having to sit in an extremely cramped transfer cell for several hours. Meg, his lawyer, has promised to be on-call 24/7 to track his whereabouts so we can all be present to shower him with love.

There are no clocks in the room and we were not allowed watches unless it was for an inmate so we couldn’t discern how much time we had with Mark. We went in shortly after 9:00 and had our watches back on by 10:15. It seemed to go by so quickly.

We sang Mark this song (to the tune of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelejuah”):

They say Mark Adams ain’t free

but that just doesn’t ring true to me

’cause everywhere I go I see Mark Adams

They locked him up and it wasn’t fair

but he kept his spirit and he kept his beard hair

and everywhere the people rise for Mark Adams!

(chorus)

We love Mark Adams

We love Mark Adams

We love Mark Adams

We love Mark Adams

(repeat as long as needed)

Mark was clearly moved and said no one had ever written him a song before. He smiled from ear to ear and thanked us.

Like the thoughtful, caring being he is, Mark summoned the energy to be a gracious host. He thanked us for going through the process to visit him and took the time to ask us each how we were doing and wanted to hear about our lives as well. He remembered that each of has been out of town recently and wanted to hear about our trips.

Before we knew it, we were asked to finish up. We asked if there is anything he wants us to do, to bring. He does need some envelopes for writing letters because he’s only allowed one trip a week to the commissary and can only buy so many. Also, he could use white underwear (boxer-briefs) because all inmates wear underwear in the shower. White is the only color accepted by the DOC. He looks forward to the surprise of his guests each time and trusts his solidarity network with decision-making.

We embraced him once more telling him we loved him and that we’ll see him soon when he is free! He walked through the gym without looking back. His face began to cloud over again as he stepped further and further away. By the end of our visit, it felt so familiar with us all laughing and talking about the future, it seemed like he would just walk out with us and head straight to a protest.

Saying goodbye left a sharp pain. We got our things from the locker in silence and then hugged each other. One friendly visitor from before asked how our friend was and they shared that their son was fine but the brightness of their earlier mood was now darkened. The bus ride back was much quieter as we all gazed at those grey impassive walls barring us from our loved ones. We took time afterwards to meet and process our visit, what we noticed about Mark, what we remembered, our own feelings and thoughts about freedom. We schemed designs for Mark Adams t-shirts and how we could construct a Care Bear-covered vehicle to collect him in and deliver him to the love and freedom that await him.

Keep the letters and the love coming! He feels it and sends it back with every fiber in his body.

With solidarity and rage,

Monica

Brett

Amelia