Dreaming at the Gates
November 19, 2000
Dear Mama,
Last night I had the strangest dream. It was
so vivid. I had forgotten that today was the day of the action, so it took me by surprise. In the
dream I was among a group of people that stretched out in lines of ten or so for as far as
the eye could see. We stood at the gate of a
military institution. The soldiers within these
gates were planning to go to battle. I was in the
front row with a megaphone. I talked to the soldiers whose path we blocked. I spoke of a nun
trapped in a dirt hole in the ground, tortured for
the sin of helping the wrong people; I spoke of a
nation that pretends to be horrified by the
atrocities perpetrated by other countries, while at the same time training soldiers to commit the
same atrocities on foreign ground.
The good news is that in the dream we seemed to be successful. As their troops moved forward, our peacekeeping forces did the same. It gave me hope, hope that maybe someday we as a nation will all come together and say we will not sit quietly and watch needless destruction. We will fight it with all our power, all our individual strengths and with voices that ring true into the night.
All my life I have learned of the heroes of the civil rights movement, I have also been lucky enough to see their spirit alive in a woman who is not only willing to speak the truth, but to face head on the consequences which may arise from doing so. I am thankful that the world still has people like you in it. It gives me hope for tomorrow.
I trust that my life will play out in a way in which my gift to the world is felt.
Your daughter, Jessica
Never Turning Back
Fort Benning, Novemebr 19, 2000
The strategy in 2000 called for a second wave” of resistance following the traditional funeral procession over the line. I joined two friends and fellow war-tax resisters in one of the numerous "second wave” affinity groups. Some groups staged mock funerals;
others enacted symbolic massacres, lying on the ground feigning
death, others walked resolutely forward toward the headquarters
of the SOA.
A scattered assortment of law enforcement officers attempted to herd us together with the many thousands who had crossed earlier in the commemorative funeral procession. The officers were directing everyone to board one of dozens of waiting school buses.
“We’re gonna keep on walking forward, never turning back,” my friends and I sang as we zigzagged across the wooded median on the divided parkway inside the boundaries. A steady rain soaked the ground, but we stayed dry in the second-hand, armyissue raincoats we had purchased earlier in the day at a local thrift store.
A huge man with a Department of Defense badge pinned on his civilian clothing tried to block our forward motion by planting the bulk of his body in our path. We three slid beneath his outstretched arms and continued walking forward, only to be blocked again — this time by three uniformed officers. We sat down on the wet grass. A policeman handcuffed each of us with plastic ties, color coded (we later learned) to indicate that we had resisted the arrest. He pulled us to our feet. The waiting buses were quickly filling up with thousands of dissenters. Over 3,400 people crossed onto the military reservation that day, each risking a fine and a sixmonth prison sentence.
The generally affable bus drivers, some accompanied by Army officers, delivered their cargo either to the aircraft hangar for processing or off base for immediate release, then returned for another load. The decision to arrest or release seemed arbitrary. Those of us destined for processing were taken further inside the base to an area where numerous large canvas tents were set up. Sheltered from the rain, we shared stories of our experiences and what had led us to cross the line, until we were escorted inside the aircraft hangar where we took our place in the long lines awaiting processing.
Two Army Chaplains with small silver crosses on their caps stood at the head of the line. They smiled cordially and exchanged comments with anyone willing to engage them in conversation. Teen soldiers dressed in camouflage combat fatigues and seated behind long tables asked each of us in turn for identifying information, then systematically fingerprinted us and scanned our photographs into a computer database.
“Do you have a bracelet?” the earnest soldier asked as I sat before him. I had already removed the color-coded plastic wristband the arresting officer had tied my hands with, but I didn’t want to lie outright.
“I never wear jewelry to these demonstrations,” I replied, evading his question and the additional charge of resisting arrest.
Within a few hours we were released with a five-year exclusionary order signed by the base commander and left to wonder who among the 1,700 arrested that day would be selected for prosecution.
In mid-April 2001 I received a "Notice And Order” signed by United States Magistrate Judge G. Mallon Faircloth to appear in the United States District Court for the Middle District of Georgia, Columbus Division, for “trial or other disposition” of Case No. 4:01-M-302 (GMF).
The United States Attorney Charges: Count 1 That on or about November 19, 2000, on lands acquired for the use of the United States and under the exclusive jurisdiction thereof, known as the United States Army Infantry Center, Fort Benning, Georgia, and located within the Columbus Division of the Middle District of Georgia and within the jurisdiction of this Court, Clare Marie Hanrahan did unlawfully reenter a United States military reservation, known as the United States Army Infantry Center, Fort Benning, Georgia, after having been ordered not to reenter by the installation commander; in violation of Title 18, United States Code, Section 1382.
Our trial was set for May 22, 2001. We were collectively known as the SOA-26. Among us were workers, students, and members of religious orders. Our ages ranged from a 19 year-old college student to an 88 year-old Franciscan nun.
United States of America v. Clare Marie Hanrahan Statement to the Court
To G. Mallon Faircloth, U S Magistrate Judge:
I was 19 when assassins gunned down Martin
Luther King Jr., in my hometown. It was a defining moment in my life, and a time of great awakening.
My younger sister Eileen and I walked together in
the silent memorial procession, arm-in-arm in a
sea of dark-skinned mourners streaming down
Main Street in Memphis. Armed National Guardsmen lined the streets as we passed. The
power of truth in action was dramatically visible
that day in the disciplined silence and dignified
presence of the mourners grieving a man whose death was the deadly consequence of bringing truth
to light.
Like many of my generation I lost faith in the US government during the Vietnam War. There were too many lies told and too many lives wasted. My older brothers, Daniel and Thomas, were handsome and brave young men when they volunteered for Vietnam. One twin followed the other into the Marines. Both returned wounded in body and spirit and utterly changed. Nothing could have prepared them for the callous betrayal of their noble ideals. One followed the other to their early graves burdened by the horrors of that criminal war and poisoned by the Agent Orange toxins that coursed through their systems.
For decades I have tried to find a way to live within my conscience as a pacifist in a violent and militaristic country. Twenty years ago I chose a life of economic simplicity as a means of war tax resistance.
I first learned the deeply disturbing facts of US policy in Latin America in the early 1980s from first-hand accounts by credible citizens who had traveled and worked as volunteers through organizations such as Witness For Peace and other citizen-delegations to Latin America. The more I learned, the more overwhelming it seemed. I took up my pen and wrote, publishing letters in local papers in the various southern communities where I have lived. I wrote to my congressional representatives. I joined in vigils. I signed petitions and attended forums. I was determined to listen and learn wherever people gathered to discuss these issues.
When time after time human rights reports revealed that officers responsible for the massacres and murders, tortures and disappearances of unarmed citizens in Latin America are graduates of the US Army School of the Americas, I joined with others in calling for its immediate closure. I have persisted in my actions at Fort Benning out of moral necessity and as a duty of citizenship.
Increasingly, the “law and order” response to nonviolent dissent in the US involves the use of rubber bullets, pepper spray, and police batons to stifle dissent; but today, in this courtroom, we have the opportunity to speak. SOA- trained soldiers did not rouse us from sleep to be executed, as were the Jesuits and the two women who worked with them in El Salvador, nor were we snatched from the street as we went about our daily chores, to be tortured and disappeared. For the most part the principle of due process of law has been accorded to us here in Columbus, Georgia, even though many persons in this peaceful movement have been selectively prosecuted and sentenced to harsh prison terms, more than any time yet served by the perpetrators of these war crimes.
I do not want to go to prison. I will have to leave my garden in the fullness of bloom, put away my bicycle and my dancing shoes, interrupt my livelihood, and say good-bye to my family, friends, and neighbors. But I am willing, if that is the judgment of this court, because I would prefer the harshness of confinement to the sickness of soul that would result if I remain silent.
As a citizen it is my duty to make my dissent
clear and unmistakable. I am not here to plead for
myself, but for the people of Latin America gravely harmed by the existence of the Western
Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation,
more accurately known as the School of Assassins.
I am here to answer the charge before me with a
charge to you, Judge Faircloth. I ask that you seek
out the deeper Truth spoken in this courtroom
today and that you listen to your own conscience and direct your judgment accordingly.
We live in a country where democratic values are in peril, where major media fails to inform, where government deceit is commonplace, and the corporate-military alliance threatens all life. If the United States is ever to regain credibility as a nation committed to the promotion of democratic ideals and respect for life, we must begin by closing, finally and forever, the shameful training school that has been the source of so much suffering.
