We received an edition via email from Ms Kendra, thank you for keeping us updated!
Oct 20th 2012
It came from Pelican Bay Adseg unit, legit source from last two statewide hunger strikes wrote me a personal letter detailing why they were hunger striking and it was for the 5 core demands. This man is validated as a [withheld for privacy reasons by Ca PW] under CDCR and is in Adseg at Pelican Bay waiting for a SHU cell to open up.
He said they were aware of the end of hostilities agreement from the short corridor as well once he received my article, he told me that when they started to refuse their statefood the officers came in took away canteen food,and when some men didn’t want to hand over their TV’s the officers forcefully cell extracted the inmate to remove the TVs.
This inmate is asking whether or not that was legal to do so. He also asked me if it is only Pelican Bay hunger striking and if any other prisons were hunger striking too. It was written on 10/10/2012 and postmarked 10/16/2012.
He told me that we should have known before it happened that they were going to hunger strike about Pelican Bay State Prison’s hunger strike (he wrote me as if I already knew it was going to happen) so it seems like the men thought everyone out here was aware of a hunger strike going to happen there when no one knew about it.
Also, I received a letter from an inmate at PB Short Corridor D-2 a few days ago telling me their mail is extremely restricted lately because of “The hunger strike” and because of all the things that have been underway there they have been working on including the end of hostilities. So i am not sure who else at Pelican Bay went on a hunger strike and it hasn’t been confirmed from an inmate there in that unit that it stopped.
CDCR says the men resumed eating at Pelican Bay State Prison but we all know CDCR’s tricks, they said that when Christian Gomez from Corcoran ASU died from starving himself, they said that about other prisons during last statewide hunger strikes that men resumed eating when to find out they were still starving. I am going to still think these men are still hunger striking in the Adseg unit at Pelican Bay State Prison, I refuse to take CDCR’s word because they have been known to lie.
Until i get confirmation from these men that they resumed eating then i’ll believe they’ve resumed eating. I take the prisoners word over CDCR’s. These men need support!! and if anyone has heard from the Adseg Unit at Pelican Bay that they resumed eating please let us know. Thank you. The officers should give them back their TV’s too! –
Kendra Castañeda, email@example.com
We received thanks to Kendra Castañeda a message from a prisoner held in Pelican Bay SHU, that there is indeed a hunger strike underway, and that the prison guards took away the personal tv’s of those participating in the peaceful protest against the torturous conditions inside the Ad. seg. or solitary confinement unit. Letter was postmarked October 16th to Kendra Castañeda, inmate name being withheld due to more retaliation from the guards.
We do not know why the personal belongings were taken by the correctional officers. The reasoning seems to be purely retaliational, there is no other reason. One cannot eat a TV.
Please also read the article on SolitaryWatch about the new hunger strikes here.
Please read the 5 core demands of last year’s hunger strike.
The hunger strike at Tehachapi appears to have been against the new “STG manual” for CDCR “gang validation”, version 7.0 (see our link in the sidebar and here) and maybe this is also the case in PBSP, as news is coming out about this latest version to spin the same policies in a different manner.
Please read this open letter to the CCR, published Oct 16th 2012, with the reaction of the PB Short Corridor Collective to these new policies, requesting Gov. Jerry Brown intervenes:
Speaking of these new policies, please read the very well-documented story of Shane Bauer, which was published yesterday on Mother Jones Magazine website, which also discusses this latest version of the “gang (STG) validation policy” (see page 4):
Solitary in Iran Nearly Broke Me. Then I Went Inside America’s Prisons.
We throw thousands of men in the hole for the books they read, the company they keep, the beliefs they hold. Here’s why.
—By Shane Bauer
Mother Jones, November/December 2012 Issue 79
IT’S BEEN SEVEN MONTHS since I’ve been inside a prison cell. Now I’m back, sort of. The experience is eerily like my dreams, where I am a prisoner in another man’s cell. Like the cell I go back to in my sleep, this one is built for solitary confinement. I’m taking intermittent, heaving breaths, like I can’t get enough air. This still happens to me from time to time, especially in tight spaces. At a little over 11 by 7 feet, this cell is smaller than any I’ve ever inhabited. You can’t pace in it.
Like in my dreams, I case the space for the means of staying sane. Is there a TV to watch, a book to read, a round object to toss? The pathetic artifacts of this inmate’s life remind me of objects that were once everything to me: a stack of books, a handmade chessboard, a few scattered pieces of artwork taped to the concrete, a family photo, large manila envelopes full of letters. I know that these things are his world.
“So when you’re in Iran and in solitary confinement,” asks my guide, Lieutenant Chris Acosta, “was it different?” His tone makes clear that he believes an Iranian prison to be a bad place.
He’s right about that. After being apprehended on the Iran-Iraq border, Sarah Shourd, Josh Fattal, and I were held in Evin Prison’s isolation ward for political prisoners. Sarah remained there for 13 months, Josh and I for 26 months. We were held incommunicado. We never knew when, or if, we would get out. We didn’t go to trial for two years. When we did we had no way to speak to a lawyer and no means of contesting the charges against us, which included espionage. The alleged evidence the court held was “confidential.”
What I want to tell Acosta is that no part of my experience—not the uncertainty of when I would be free again, not the tortured screams of other prisoners—was worse than the four months I spent in solitary confinement. What would he say if I told him I needed human contact so badly that I woke every morning hoping to be interrogated? Would he believe that I once yearned to be sat down in a padded, soundproof room, blindfolded, and questioned, just so I could talk to somebody?
I want to answer his question—of course my experience was different from those of the men at California’s Pelican Bay State Prison—but I’m not sure how to do it. How do you compare, when the difference between one person’s stability and another’s insanity is found in tiny details? Do I point out that I had a mattress, and they have thin pieces of foam; that the concrete open-air cell I exercised in was twice the size of the “dog run” at Pelican Bay, which is about 16 by 25 feet; that I got 15 minutes of phone calls in 26 months, and they get none; that I couldn’t write letters, but they can; that we could only talk to nearby prisoners in secret, but they can shout to each other without being punished; that unlike where I was imprisoned, whoever lives here has to shit at the front of his cell, in view of the guards?
“There was a window,” I say. I don’t quite know how to tell him what I mean by that answer. “Just having that light come in, seeing the light move across the cell, seeing what time of day it was—” Without those windows, I wouldn’t have had the sound of ravens, the rare breezes, or the drops of rain that I let wash over my face some nights. My world would have been utterly restricted to my concrete box, to watching the miniature ocean waves I made by sloshing water back and forth in a bottle; to marveling at ants; to calculating the mean, median, and mode of the tick marks on the wall; to talking to myself without realizing it. For hours, days, I fixated on the patch of sunlight cast against my wall through those barred and grated windows. When, after five weeks, my knees buckled and I fell to the ground utterly broken, sobbing and rocking to the beat of my heart, it was the patch of sunlight that brought me back. Its slow creeping against the wall reminded me that the world did in fact turn and that time was something other than the stagnant pool my life was draining into.
When, after five weeks, my knees buckled and I fell to the ground utterly broken, sobbing and rocking to the beat of my heart, it was the patch of sunlight that brought me back.
Here, there are no windows.