Write.

Photo courtesy of TIME: The Kalief Browder Story' Part Five

Write.

by Ebony Love

In the shadow of iconic monuments and places such as the Statue of Liberty, the Yankee Stadium, and the Bronx Zoo lies what is infamously known as one of the worst prisons in the United States. I am becoming aware of the circumstances within Rikers Island through Time: The Kalief Browder Story.

It seems as though each day I learn something new when it comes to the injustices in the world. I am currently studying history, so while I do not lack historical knowledge, what constantly strikes me is when I realize that these injustices are not only of the past. While watching the second episode of the series, the filmmakers try to explain the reality of Rikers Island from a personal standpoint; however, when they are trying to explain this narrative, the only thing that runs through my mind is a poem by Wisława Szymborska titled “Hunger Camp at Jaslo”.

When we think of human atrocities, the event that makes everyone’s list is the Holocaust. But what is difficult to grasp with that tragedy is the sense of scale when it came to where everything was placed. Concentration and extermination camps did not exist in a vacuum; rather, they were often on the outskirts of towns, even being so close to living spaces that residents just did not ask questions about what the spaces were used for. History shows us what happens when we become complacent.

We hear everyday about how the United States’ criminal justice system is failing at all levels. If we needed to provide a list of names of those that have been failed, we may not ever finish. And as an activist, it is always hard to know where to start, becoming discouraged along the way because of the vast undertaking that fighting the system is. While I know that not everyone can fight the system, there is one thing that I call on everyone to do: do not become desensitized.

On an individual level, sometimes I feel as though I am desensitized. My social media network is full of like-minded individuals who aim to raise awareness to almost every instance of abuse; so every day I see another name, another location, and another abuse. To deal with this constant exposure, individually, I have chosen to limit my social media exposure. I only log in for certain hours in the day and do not over-extend my time. I do not do this in order to force myself into ignorance, but instead to focus on my own personal activism. This personal activism at this point in time, is my education. I immerse myself in learning about systems like the theories of poverty and welfare as well as the social foundations of education. By learning the theoretical, I can then look at the abuses of society with a goal-oriented lense rather than a purely critical lense. The constant barrage of negativity can be overturned when I take this break for my own self-care.

These prisons should bother everyone. While you may not personally know someone in jail or prison, but as the numbers remind us daily, there are millions of people behind bars. Just because we may not be personally affected, we should never just accept things the way they are. If we turn a blind eye to what is happening now, then how will history view the martyrs that our country has failed systematically?

Another self-care mechanism I rely on is communication. Just writing these thoughts is cathartic for me. But also verbally speaking to those closest to me is comparable to slowly deflating a balloon full of built up pressure. Surrounding myself with those who catch me in those times when society seems to close in on me is vital to successfully continuing in the fight.

It is up to us to communicate. It is up to us to write. Write it down, and write it out often. Raise awareness. It does not have to be every day, but when the criminal justice system no longer bothers you, when lack of accountability no longer sparks anything within you, then it is time to start writing and communicating again in order to move in a productive, healthy fight.

“Hunger Camp at Jaslo” by Wisława Szymborska

Write it down. Write it. In ordinary ink

on ordinary paper: they weren’t given food,

they all died of hunger. All. How many?

It’s a big meadow. How much grass

for each one? Write down: I don’t know.

History counts its skeletons in round numbers.

A thousand and one remains a thousand,

as though the one had never existed:

an imaginary embryo, an empty cradle,

a primer opened for no one,

air that laughs, cries, grows,

stairs to a void bounding out to the garden,

nobody’s place in the line.

It became flesh right here, on this meadow.

and the meadow is as silent as a false witness.

Sunny. Green. Nearby, a forest

with wood to chew on and

drops beneath the bark to drink

every day a full ration of the view

until you go blind. Overhead, a bird –

the shadow of its life-giving wings

brushed their lips. Their jaws opened.

Teeth clacked against teeth.

At night, the sickle moon shone in the sky

and reaped the dark for dreamed-of loaves.

Hands came floating from blackened icons,

each holding an empty chalice.

A man swayed

on a grill of barbed wire.

Some sang, their mouths full of earth.

A lovely song of how war strikes straight

at the heart.

Write: how silent it is.

Yes.