shared by our spiritual families—Mumia’s beloved brothers and sisters in the MOVE Organization, and my fellow members of the Bruderhof, a community movement grounded in New Testament teachings. The more we learned about each other, the closer we felt.
As my weekly visits to Mumia continued, all of us at the Bruderhof became increasingly aware of the blatant injustices of his trial—and increasingly active in the international campaign to protest his death sentence. We joined rallies, wrote to government officials and newspaper editors, and printed his writings in our journal, The Plough. Not surprisingly, we were met with plenty of criticism, and many who had previously claimed to be our friends censured us for “meddling” in such radical “politics.” On the other hand, we gained hundreds of new friends, including death row inmates, writers, artists, and rappers, social workers, teachers, activists, and other religious and secular groups who stand in opposition to the death penalty. We have been deeply enriched by our contact with Mumia.
Our involvement, of course, was spurred on by far more than Mumia’s case per se: our church has always spoken out against individual and state-sanctioned violence—from the treatment of Jews in Nazi Germany to the bombing of Vietnam and Iraq. Yet even without the historical precedents, we could not have remained silent. Why? Because the life of an innocent man is at stake.
Mumia is, in reality, a prisoner of conscience. Long before his arrest in 1981 —from his teen years in the Black Panther Party to his career as a radio journalist—his commitment to the ideals of honesty and fairness, and his tireless attempts to unmask the lie of governmental “justice,” cost him his freedom. Tragically, they may cost him his life.
Punished most recently for writing a book—his controversial exposé Live from Death Row—Mumia is painfully aware of how quickly the broadest civil liberties in the world are curtailed when political power is at stake. Still, he continues to speak out. And as his fellow human beings—as his brothers and sisters—we have felt it a matter of conscience to assist him in bringing to the printed page his thoughts and feelings. In this way, from out of the sterile steel-and-block walls that isolate him, blossoms have unfolded—blossoms of thought and of spirit. Penned beneath the scribbled symbol of a flower and referred to by the silent gesture of cupped hands—wrists shackled, but palms uplifted to unfurl the fingers—they have now drifted far beyond the confines of the prison fence.
I have visited Mumia as his “spiritual advisor” for eighteen months now. There have been days when I entered the “row” depressed, weighed down with those petty problems that plague all of us at one time or another. Yet I have left again deeply refreshed and strengthened.
How is it that a wellspring of life can arise on death row? That a condemned man can speak—sincerely, even effusively—of the “wonder and joy of Life?” How is it that a despised convict, locked in a cell the size of a bathroom in the most godforsaken spot in Pennsylvania, can imbue with a spirit of freedom those who are “free?”
MUMIA IS SIMPLY A MAN. Writing to me last summer from a sweltering prison block near Philadelphia, thirteen dreadful days before his scheduled (and then suddenly postponed) execution date, his soul cries out:
I would be lying if I told you I’ve not had those nights—dark nights of the soul where death itself seems welcome . . . I sometimes want to shout—“I am not a symbol; I am a man!” But on this my fabled “voice” falters. I am no more, no less, than a man—a human fighting for his breath in a shifting sea of codified hatred. As I seek a safe shore, a harbor, I am buffeted by swells that threaten to drown out my very existence . . . For me, the “law” is not a refuge, but a ravenous great whale circling ever closer, seeking its prey.
And so he sits on death row today, his future uncertain, but his spirit still unfettered. As he writes in another letter:
. . . Loneliness is but an illusion. One man, “living” on one of the most damned sites on earth, is not truly alone. The death chambers of America are not as tightly sealed as many may suspect, for how can Spirit be kept out?
It is often said that when a writer bares his soul in a book, a small part of it travels to every reader. Here, then, from the heart and soul of Mumia Abu-Jamal to yours, are the flowers of his spirit.
New Meadow Run Bruderhof
October 1996
A Write-up for Writing
ON JUNE 3, 1995, one day after being served with a death warrant, I was served with a “write-up,” a misconduct report for “engaging actively in a business or profession,” i.e., as a journalist. So strongly does the state object to me writing what you are now reading that they have begun to punish me, while I’m in the most punitive section that the system allows, for daring to speak and write the truth.
The institutional offense? My book, Live from Death Row. It paints an uncomplimentary picture of a prison system that calls itself “correctional” but does little more than corrupt human souls; a system that eats hundreds of millions of dollars a year to torture, maim, and mutilate tens of thousands of men and women; a system that teaches bitterness and hones hatred.
Clearly, what the government wants is not just death, but silence. A “correct” inmate is a silent one. One who speaks, writes, and exposes horror for what it is, is given a “misconduct.” Is that a correct system? A system of corrections? In this department of state government, the First Amendment is a nullity. It doesn’t apply.
No one—not a cop, nor a guard—can find one lie in Live from Death Row; indeed, it is precisely because of its truth that it is a target of the state and its minions—a truth they don’t want you to see.
Consider: Why haven’t you seen, heard, or read anything like this on TV, radio, or in the papers? Newspapers, radio, and TV are increasingly the property of multinational corporations or wealthy individuals and therefore reflect the perspective of the rich and the established, not the poor and powerless.
In Live from Death Row, you hear the voices of the many, the oppressed, the damned, and the bombed. I paid a high price to bring it to you, and I will pay more; but, I tell you, I would do it a thousand times, no matter what the cost, because it is right! To quote John Africa:
“When you are committed to doing what is right, the power of righteousness will never betray you. . . .” It was right to write Live from Death Row, and it’s right for you to read it, no matter what cop, guard, prisoncrat, politician, or media mouthpiece tells you otherwise.
Every day of your life, no doubt, you’ve heard of “freedom of speech” and “freedom of the press.” But what can such “freedom” mean without the freedom to read, or to hear, what you want?
As you read this, know that I am being punished by the government for writing Live from Death Row, and for writing these very words. Indeed, I’ve been punished by the United States government for my writings since I was fifteen years of age—but I’ve kept right on writing. You keep right on reading!
BOOKS
AND THE STATE
The writer who is endorsed by the state is the writer who says what everyone wants to hear: the allowable things. It is noteworthy that even at this time in world history, those who write satire, social commentary, or works
