By Jean Athey

Juma Din was the name of my prisoner. An Afghan who is one year older than my daughter, he has been in Guantanamo a long time. That is all I know about him. I wrote his name on both my wrists with a ballpoint pen to be sure I would not forget it. How terrible if I had forgotten his name!

My mission on January 11 was to bring Juma’s name into a U.S. court. In the many years he has been at Guantanamo, and to the shame of my country, no court has heard his name or learned anything about him. Is he a terrorist, a victim of someone’s tribal or personal vendetta sold to the United States for a bounty, or just unlucky -- in the wrong place at the wrong time? Whatever the answer, I know he has suffered mightily, and I believed I could “suffer” just a little on his behalf. I use quotation marks because I am well aware that any experience I am likely to have could not be compared to that of a Guantanamo prisoner. Nevertheless, I expected some amount of discomfort and distress, and in that I was not to be disappointed.

I am a 62-year-old suburban grandmother of six. Retired now, my day job is caring for two of my grandchildren while my daughter is at work. I am not necessarily the picture of a wild-eyed radical. But I am radical about the right of all people to be treated humanely and with dignity, and I am radical about the right of habeas corpus. The right to contest incarceration before a judge—habeas corpus--is the bedrock of our legal system. Without it, there is no freedom. And a government that tortures has no legitimacy.

My passion about these two issues is how I ended up in jail and then in an emergency room. This is my story of what happened.

I had decided to participate in a rally -- organized by Amnesty International, the National Religious Campaign Against Torture and Witness Against Torture -- on the National Mall in Washington, DC, on Jan.11 of this year, the sixth anniversary of the opening of Guantanamo. Six years! People have been held in appalling conditions for up to six years and we know almost nothing about them.

Before the rally, we were passing out flyers at the Metro station. A man took one of my flyers, read it, then threw it away in anger. He yelled, “You want to set terrorists free!” I asked him, “How do you know they’re terrorists? They’ve never come before a court.” He replied, “Do you think the government just arrests and imprisons people for nothing?”
I was stunned. Such amazing trust of the government! He is willing to give up the most fundamental right under law, that of habeas corpus, because he completely trusts the government.

The rally was themed “Counter Terror with Justice: Stop Torture, Close Guantanamo.” The speakers were inspiring, the turnout disappointing -- at most 400 people. Where is the outrage, I keep asking myself. Where are all the people who care about the quintessential American values of human dignity and rule of law? Where are the “values voters,” so touted by the media? Or, are respect for human dignity, fair treatment and rule of law no longer core American values?

After the rally, more than 200 of us -- dressed in orange jump suits and black hoods -- marched two-by-two in a solemn, totally quiet two-mile procession to the Supreme Court building. On that march, most of us thought about the prisoner whom we each represented. I wondered about the mother of Juma Din. She might be about my age, since our children are the same age. What kind of hell must she have lived through for six years? By now, she surely knows her son is in Guantanamo; she must suffer daily, waking up each morning to imagine what horror he will endure that day.

Soon we reached the Supreme Court. Our “guards,” demonstrators like us dressed in camouflage, yelled at us to kneel down. We did so, in rows on the sidewalk below the imposing edifice of the court. Doing this was legal, but what some of us would do next was not legal. Our guard yelled, “Group one prisoners, rise!” Those of us in front stood up. “Prisoners, march forward!” About 30 of us walked forward some 20 feet, to the first set of steps leading up to the court. “Prisoners, kneel,” yelled the guard. We knelt in two rows at the bottom of the steps. Above us, in granite lettering, were the words, “Equal Justice Under Law.” Where, I wondered, was justice for Juma Din?

Police, who had been standing on the steps, had not interfered with our march to the steps. But after we had knelt for about five minutes, an officer came over and called out that we were in violation of the law and that if we did not leave, we would be arrested. We stayed kneeling in our jumpsuits and hoods. Very soon, the police began arresting us, one by one. We were handcuffed and led away to a nearby holding pen. Others from our group were arrested inside the Supreme Court, having arrived there early with the intention of unfurling a large banner with the message “Close Guantanamo.”

I have become convinced that our country is so far off balance, so far from both the rule of law and from basic moral principles, that I must use all nonviolent means at my disposal to protest and resist. Sometimes, this means breaking a small law to bring attention to a much larger infraction of law by the government. This is civil disobedience, nonviolent resistance to what is intolerable. Number VII of the Nuremberg Principles states: “Complicity in the commission of a crime against peace, a war crime, or a crime against humanity . . . is a crime under international law.” On Jan. 11, I felt like I had to break the law that forbids any protest at the Supreme Court to avoid being complicit in a larger crime--torture and inhumane treatment promulgated as a policy of my government. Thus, I knelt on the steps of the Supreme Court.

It was about 1 p.m., and we stayed in the holding pen, handcuffed, until nearly 6 p.m. I was lucky, as my handcuffs were not very tight, but still it is uncomfortable to have your hands locked behind your back and aggravating to conditions such as arthritis that afflicted some of us.

Finally, we were taken to the basement of the Supreme Court for “processing,” the inevitable bureaucratic paperwork. We remained handcuffed, and there was no food or water. But we reminded ourselves how lucky we were, compared to the prisoner we each represented.

At about 9 p.m., some drinking water was brought in to us, and finally, near midnight, we were transported to the D.C. central lockup for more processing and a night in the jail. Finally, our plastic handcuffs were cut off.

About 1 a.m., we were each given a baggie containing our dinner—the first food most of us had had since breakfast. The dinner consisted of four pieces of soggy white bread, one piece of cheese and two pieces of unidentifiable, foul-tasting meat. Not exactly gourmet, but we were so hungry that most of us ate at least some of it. We were also offered a cup of sickeningly sweet Kool-Aid. If we didn’t want the Kool-Aid, there was water from the spigot on the toilet in our cells. I drank some, but it tasted bad and we worried that it wasn’t safe.

I shared a cell with a bright 20-year-old girl, arrested in civil disobedience for the first time. One wonderful aspect of this protest was its intergenerational nature! The total number arrested was about 80, and we represented all ages--I certainly wasn’t the oldest!

Our cell was about 6 feet by 8 feet, and everything in it was made of steel. The “bunk bed” consisted of two slabs of steel, one above the other, each welded to the wall. Of course, there were no mattresses, covers or other accoutrements of civilization. Any movement I made on my bed caused the metal to shift, producing an extremely loud noise.

The only other feature of our cell was a combination toilet and sink. While the bed was noisy, flushing the toilet sounded like a rocket blasting off, and the noise reverberated up and down the corridor of cells. I was frankly amazed at the amount of noise it is possible for a toilet to make!

You’d think it might be difficult to sleep on a metal slab in an overheated room, with bright lights shining in your eyes, guards yelling all night long, and the periodic clanging of the rocket toilets--but I was exhausted and did manage to fall asleep. I had begun to think that the anxiety dream I’d had the night before, when I’d gone to bed knowing I might be in jail the following night, had been on target. Then, I’d remember Juma and wonder what was happening to him at that very moment.

At about 6 a.m., the guards brought us breakfast—same menu as dinner. I ate part of the cheese sandwich, but could not manage to eat more. At 9 a.m., we were transferred to the court for our hearing before a judge. This was our habeas right--we had been arrested, accused of a crime, and now we could go to a court of law and tell our side of the story -- a right that has been denied to Juma Din for six years.

We were cuffed again for the ride to the courthouse, but this time I wasn’t so lucky. The cuffs were tight and rubbed against my hands so that I still had bruises two days later. After our group of five women was seated in our transport wagon, the guard who had helped us get in gave us a wonderful gift: Before closing the door to the van, he told us, “Dr. King would be proud of you.” We were deeply moved and grateful to him, and one woman asked if he’d like us to sing a song for him. Surprised, he said yes, and so we sang “Down by the Riverside.” He joined in before he closed the door to the van. I hope some guard in Guantanamo has been as kind to Juma. However, I know that prisoners here and in other U.S. prisons abroad, such as Bagram, have more likely been subjected to torture and other morally shocking treatment from their guards.

In the van, I began to feel the effects of the half cheese sandwich I had for breakfast, or maybe the bad water, and I knew I was going to throw up -- just not when. I managed to make it to the court, where we were herded into another holding pen. But first, our handcuffs were traded for leg chains; the chains rubbed and hurt when we walked. However, we didn’t have far to walk and, unlike the handcuffs, the leg chains didn’t require a stress position. I was thankful to have the cuffs off.

Our holding pen at the courthouse was cozy; there were so many of us that there was barely room for everyone to sit on the floor. Usually, someone would be balanced on the toilet as a way to free up a little more space.

We had been allowed only a half glass of water all morning. Dehydration plus truly horrible food is no doubt what made me sick. I finally threw up the cheese sandwich. I was very glad our holding pen had a toilet!

People were asking for water, and eventually the guards brought another half cup for everyone. But this was too late for me; my body had already rebelled and would not tolerate anything. I suffered dry heaves the rest of the day as we waited to see the judge. This was starting to be a bit more miserable than I had anticipated. But, I thought, how has Juma fared, for six years? Has he been ill? Has he had injuries from his treatment? Has he had been force-fed, as many Guantanamo prisoners have—another form of torture? Probably. And he likely didn’t have the sympathy and loving care I was receiving from my friends in the holding cell.

I was not the only one sick—there were two other women in my holding cell who were also ill. The worst thing about getting sick was that, curled on the floor in the corner, I couldn’t participate in or even listen to the wonderful conversations of the women with whom I was spending the day. What a lost privilege!

Finally, around 6 p.m., my turn to see the judge came. I was able to say one sentence in the court: “My name is Jean Athey and I am here on behalf of Juma Din.” For the first time, Juma had his name before a court of law.

We had three choices regarding our plea: guilty, not guilty or the government’s offer of “stet,” in which no trial is held and in six months, if you haven’t been re-arrested, the charge is wiped off the books. I decided to take stet because it was presented as a way to get out more quickly and I was desperate to get medical attention. Most of my friends pled not guilty and will come back for a trial, for which they could be sentenced to up to three months in jail.

When I agreed to the stet, I knew that if I engaged in civil disobedience within six months, it would prolong the outcome of this particular charge. But, I thought, I’m not doing this again for a while, anyway—I’m too much of a wimp. This is hard. I obviously need more courage than I have. So, the stet is fine. Plus, I felt I needed a doctor right away.

When the judge released me, my friend Rossana —who had been waiting all day—took me straight to the hospital emergency room. My husband is retired military, so I get my medical care at Bethesda Naval Hospital. I was pretty certain that all I needed was rehydration and some medicine to stop the constant vomiting. I felt a little timid about telling a military doctor why I was ill. When I saw the doctor, someone who had a very military-type haircut, I figured I was in for trouble! He started asking me questions:
“What did you have for breakfast?”
“Half a cheese sandwich.”
“And after?”
“Nothing.” I saw this wasn’t helping him. I said, “I guess I might as well tell you the whole story.”
He said, “Whatever you can tell me would help.”

So, I told him how I object to the United States operating such a shameful prison in Guantanamo Bay, where people are held for years without access to the courts, and that I am appalled that torture is government policy. Lying in my ER bed, I told him that because of my strong belief that this is profoundly wrong, morally and legally, I had participated in a demonstration on the mall and got arrested, spent the night in jail, and that apparently my body had rebelled. I doubt he expected to hear this from his 62-year-old patient, and I wondered how he’d respond. He said, “I encourage people to stand up for their convictions.” We both agreed that a citizen has a responsibility to act on his or her beliefs. As he signed my release papers several hours later, he admonished with a grin, “Now try to stay out of trouble.”

That’s what my husband would like, too. He is my bedrock of support, without whom I could not continue to do whatever I can for peace and justice. But, my husband worries.

I do not think I’ll be able to stay out of trouble, though. I keep thinking of Juma and all the others with him. One of the women who got arrested with me said at one point, “This is like childbirth. You forget the pain and so you’re willing to do it again.” Maybe I have already forgotten the pain, minimal as it was, because I will certainly be doing this again, as long as indefinite detention, torture and inhumane treatment are national policy. And as long as Juma’s name is in a U.S. court only symbolically.