Hawkish Happenings

The days following my mother’s whispered confession to me were tense. I spent as little time around her as possible, which really wasn’t all that hard to do. After my lessons in the morning, I spent the afternoons with Akara in her rooms or in the courtyard she shared with the other royal children. I was reluctant to go anywhere near the Siem Reap, but couldn’t explain why to my friend. Luckily, she was as easy-going as she was beautiful, and she never asked me why I avoided the riverbanks. She knew there was a reason; I could see her watching for my reaction whenever someone mentioned the water. Akara simply accepted my sudden distaste, and suggested other venues for our walks and our picnics.

I wanted to tell her. The secret that I was keeping locked away was making me distracted at my lessons, and short-tempered with those around me, but I couldn’t burden her with the story that my mother had told me. I trusted her implicitly. I knew she would never tell anyone anything that I told her in confidence, but I couldn’t bear the thought that she might begin to look at me differently. It was enough that I felt my family, my very life, was dishonored. I was ashamed.

I probably would have been able to stay away from the water indefinitely, but the time for the yearly festival honoring Jhulelal was fast approaching. I have never dreaded anything more, I think, than going out on the Siem Reap, pretending joy at my mother’s side, and honoring the god that she said was my grand sire.

How could she have done this to me? Oh, I didn’t believe for a minute that I was the granddaughter of a god. I believed that my mother loved me very much, and had made up the story entire. I suppose she thought it would be easier on me to believe that I was the granddaughter of a god than to think that I was the product of some distasteful encounter she had had one night upon the riverbank with an unknown man.

The day finally dawned that marked the beginning of the festival honoring Jhulelal. My nurse woke me and indicated the clothing she had laid out for me to wear, then bowed her way out of my bedchamber to fetch some fruit to break my fast with. The silks and the headdress were beautiful, but I felt no enthusiasm for dressing up and going out on what would be a very long ordeal for me.

I felt a strange twinge deep inside my belly, like something had loosened, and then realized that fortune was with me. I know had an excuse to miss at least the first day of the festival: I had become a woman.

Channary brought in a plate containing sliced chék, mango, and some papaya, and then started to bow her way out of my chamber when I stopped her. “Please inform my lady mother that I shall not be able to attend her today. Tell her that my moon time has arrived.”

Channary’s eyes widened, but she bowed quickly, and hurried down the hall, her sandals clicking lightly on the tiles. I fetched the cloths I had had prepared against this day, and after putting them in place, retired to my bed, happy at being spared the ordeal I had dreaded so horribly.

I couldn’t return to sleep, however. The morning was very fine, and the light streaming through the fine silk over the doorway to the courtyard was intense enough to make my head pound. I rose and lowered the heavier bamboo blinds over the window. It would restrict the breeze, and my bedchamber would become hot quickly, but it was better than lying in bed with my head thumping from the light.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, my mother was in my chamber, pulling the bamboo aside, and jerking the thin sheet off my damp body. “If you think you can continue to ignore me, on today of all days, you are very mistaken,” she began.

I moaned as the bright sunlight struck my face. “Please, mother! Put the blinds back!”

The expression on my mother’s face changed from one of annoyance to one of concern, and she rapidly crossed my sleeping chamber to my side, and laid a cool hand on my forehead. “Soriya? Are you truly ill?”

My mother whispered the story to me one night, about the time that a suitable marriage was being arranged for me with one of Akara’s many brothers. The prince chosen for me was a boy I had known all my life, and while I wasn’t particularly excited at the prospect of marriage to Sovannarith, I realized it was a very good match. To be quite honest, I was more excited by all the new clothing I would receive as part of my bridal portion.

At any rate, I hadn’t become a woman yet, and couldn’t be married until I was. My marriage existed only as a future possibility, and not something that I had to worry about quite yet. In the meantime, I occupied myself with choosing beautiful embroidered silk for my wedding clothes, and giggling with Akara over what happened in a couple’s marriage bed – until my mother stopped me from going to my bed chamber one night.

“Soriya.” I heard her call my name just as I was about to leave her, and retire to my bed for the evening.

“Yes, mother.” I turned and waited for some request on her part. I was an obedient daughter.

“Come here, child. I have something I must tell you.”

I crossed the room to her side, where she lay on the bright silk cushions she favored, then kneeled next to her. I waited some time for her to speak, but when she finally began to tell me the story she had kept to herself for so long, the words came flowing out as if she couldn’t wait to get them told, and in the keeping of someone besides herself.

“After your sister, Sovanara, was born, there were no more children for a long time, and I felt that my time of bearing children for your father was over.”

“But, mother,”

“Hush, child. It is rude to interrupt your elders when they are speaking.”

“Yes, mother.” I bowed my head again, and resigned myself to listening to yet another long and boring story of the kind that older adults tell to those that are a captive audience.

My mother ran a hand over my head, petting me to balance out the reprimand, then began again. “I was on the banks of the Siem Reap, up at the waterfall above the temple. It was growing dark, but it is always so beautiful at twilight that I stayed longer than I had planned. It was almost full dark when I stood to leave, and when I had started down the path next to the river, I saw him standing in the middle of the path.”

“Who was it, mother? Was it a bandit?” My mother’s story was growing interesting, after all.

She tapped my knuckles sharply with her fan, but otherwise acted as if she hadn’t heard me. “I felt no sense of menace from him. I wasn’t afraid in the least, although I knew somewhere in my mind that I should be. He was…beautiful. It is the only way I know to describe him. It was as if he had gathered all the remaining light to himself, and he almost…sparkled in the twilight. I had never seen such a man.

“He didn’t speak, but just held out a hand to me. I took it, and let him draw me closer. I knew that it was time for me to be returning home, to see to the evening meal, but being close to him felt right. I felt like I was supposed to be there.

“He pulled me to a small clearing off the path, and I stood there, and let him pull the silks and the veils off my body. He still didn’t speak, and I don’t know why I didn’t, either, except that I didn’t feel the need to.”

“Mother!” I was beginning to see where her story was leading, and really didn’t want to hear the rest of it. “Do not tell me that you dishonored yourself and father with another man! I do not believe you!”

She looked at me now; looked me directly in the eyes. “It is true, Soriya. I cannot tell you that what I did was wrong, even though I am sure you believe it was. It wasn’t wrong. From that meeting at the edge of the Siem Reap, you came. I had thought I was too old, that Darany was too old, for us to welcome any more children into the world, but that man gave me a gift that night. He gave me you.”

I stood quickly, and began pacing, unsure of what to say. It couldn’t possibly be true – Darany was my father. “You are lying! I do not know why you wish to hurt me this way, but it cannot be true. I know who my father was, and he was not some…some man you met at the edge of the river one night! Perhaps you have had too much to drink this evening, or you are ill, but Darany was my father.”

I paused in my tirade, and glanced at my mother. She wasn’t even looking at me, but at some far away place in her mind. A tear escaped the corner of her eye, and rolled unnoticed down her still smooth cheek. I was at once sorry for the things I had said, no matter that she had brought them on herself. I crossed to her side, kneeling next to her again, and took her hand. When I spoke, I was gentler with her. “Mother, tell me: why do you say these things?”

She turned to look at me once more, love shining in her eyes. “You have long been my favorite, Soriya. You needed to know who your father was. I don’t know his name, for he only whispered one sentence to me before he left, and that was You have been loved by the son of Jhulelal."

And with her last sentence, the world as I had always known it ended.

My parents were nobles. Long after their deaths, I realized that the man I had known as my father wasn’t my father – he couldn’t have been. Still, Darany was my father in all ways, and loved my mother, Achariya, until his death at what was then considered a ripe old age. I believe he was somewhere in his fourth decade of life when he died, but I don’t remember.

It used to make me very sad to realize that specific details of my early life, and my memories of my parents had become indistinct. I suppose I have grown used to it now. In any case, there isn’t anything to be done for it.

As I said, we were a noble family, and I was born during the reign of Jayavarman II. Life was certainly good for a pampered daughter at his court, and I of course was taught to dance and sing so that I might one day make a suitable marriage into another noble family. I was a bright and pleasant child, and was welcomed most everywhere I was wont to go. I often performed for the god-king, singing and dancing for his entertainment with the other children at his court at his request. He had many children himself, among them my best friend, Akara. Akara was the daughter of one of the lesser concubines, and thus free to roam after her daily lessons as I was. I often wonder if she made a good marriage, or if she succumbed to one of the childhood illnesses or seasonal maladies that often plagued the people. Such are the regrets of my life.

I was remarkably healthy at a time when more children than not died in infancy. None of the passing sicknesses affected me, although no one thought to question it at the time. As it was, I was the last of seven living children that my mother bore my father – or so we thought – and was petted and indulged at every opportunity, and they gave many offerings of thanks at the temples of Angkor for my continued life. Darany and Achariya were considered middle-aged when I was born to them, and so there were no more children.

It was only after his death that my mother told me the story of my conception, and my birth. I chose not to believe her, was hurt and appalled that she could fabricate such a story, and so dishonor my father. But she wasn’t lying, and her mind and souls hadn’t started wandering yet. She told me what she knew, but even she, so involved that the story is just as much hers as mine, didn’t know it all.

As children, we used to listen to stories of children that were half god, half human. These children hid from the gods that were their fathers because they wished to stay on earth. They were in love with the humans, jealous of their humanity, and wanted it for themselves. As a result, they often courted and won women as their mates. The children of these matings were neither gods nor humans, nor even something in between. They were a new race, and new species, and considered damned.

As little girls, Akara and I used to spend many a night in terrified whispers, discussing what we would do if confronted by one of the half-gods that roamed the earth. In our discussions, we decided we would be very brave, and that we were fierce enough to defend ourselves from them if we should chance upon them at the reservoir, or on the banks of the Siem Reap one night. Of course, our parents, tutors and nurses would never let us out at night alone. Just the thought of us being out after dark alone was enough to send one of the adults entrusted with our care into paroxysms of fright, but we discounted that. It wasn’t important to our girlish warrior fantasies. We were Khmer. We were fierce and strong.

But the half-gods were real. One of them was my father.

So, I'm gonna try NaNo again this year. I'll post what I have here, just as a way to prod myself to keep writing. I hope you enjoy it.

**********

I was christened Soriya at my birth. I have kept that name throughout my life, although it’s meaning is most ironic. Soriya means “the sun” where I was born, in what is known now as Cambodia. I haven’t seen the sun in longer than I can remember, but I keep it anyway, in honor of the parents that gave it to me. Their memory is as distant as that of the sun I am named for.

I have witnessed the rise of the Khmer Empire - the construction of the beautiful and intricate temples at Angkor Wat. I also grieved as I watched the empire fall, and the once cultured and educated Khmer fracture and fade into obscurity. I was in Paris during the revolution, and may have had some small hand in the intrigue and so forth that was rife at that time.

I sailed the oceans of the world, first with the Chinese of the Qing Dynasty, and then with the legendary Jean Lafitte into the bayous of the Louisiana Territories. I danced at quadroon balls, made an enemy of Marie Leveau, and lived as a rich and pampered noblewoman in the old French Quarter. I watched the bloody birth of a new nation – one called America, and watched it tear itself in two, and try to put itself together again.

I am still here, and I still watch.

I have been called a vampire, a succubus, a witch, a demon. I am all of those things, and yet none of those things. I am…the only one left. There are no more like me. The old gods have gone the way of the gods that were here even before them.

But, I am still here, and I still watch. I will tell you the story, so that even if I go the way of the gods that created me, there will be someone who knows, who will have it in their keeping when I have faded into the mist that rises over the Siem Reap – the river of my birth.

Most who know me even a little bit know how passionate I am about Leonard Peltier's case and issues related to it. Now, I'm asking people to help out by just adding a signature to a petition asking that Native American inmates be given the same freedom of religion that other inmates receive. Please sign the petition, and spread the word - thanks.

This is the letter I received:

Religious freedom is a fundamental right of all, including American Indians, yet the struggle to preserve and protect our religion has always been a difficult one. More so when incarcerated Native Americans are concerned who tend to be given second rate acknowledgment by prison officials and mainstream faiths.

In 1984 Robert Wilson, (Standing Deer) Albert Garza and I fasted for 42 days to draw worldwide attention to the deplorable conditions at the USP Marion and to no longer allow the United States to continue denying Native American brothers and sisters the right to practice our religion. For over 500 years our religion has been trampled on and disrespected by those who invaded our lands, and who have tried to take away our culture, our traditions, our language, our history, and our religion. When we fasted for 42 days we did not fast out of depression or despair, but with a joyful commitment of total love and dedication to our people. We were willing to fast until we were granted our constitutional right to practice our religion or until we returned to our Creator.

In retaliation for our 42 day fast we were held in solitary isolation for 15 months with nothing in our "cages" (cell) except for a steel bunk and toilet. The door to the "cage" (cell) was never opened unless we were handcuffed behind our backs, and four guards with clubs were present to supervise our every move. After a year of confinement attorney Margaret Gold filed a lawsuit against the Federal Bureau of Prisons that secured in having each one of us transferred to a separate maximum security prison where we were allowed to practice our religion.

In 1985 I was transferred to USP Leavenworth; Alfred went to USP Lewisburg and Standing Deer to USP Lompoc.

As of August 15, 2005 I have been at USP Lewisburg and since November 2006 I have not attended an inipi ceremony (sweat lodge). When I say I have not attended an inipi ceremony, I must add I have refused to attend an inipi ceremony, as my way of refusing to participate in the ongoing disrespect for our religion and sacred ceremonies by the USP prison system. I can not allow the United States to continue denying Native American brothers and sisters the right to practice our religion.

The trend within the past several years throughout the United States prison system has been to restrict the traditional spiritual practices of Native Americans. Nationwide the current trend of prison officials is to limit the amount of time Indian prisoners can participate in inipi ceremonies, talking circles and spiritual gatherings. The new restrictions in U.S. prisons are racist and undermine the sacredness of our traditional ceremonies. Those restrictions include time limits and the rationing of firewood for the inipi and an English-only mandate. Mandating the English-only requirement for the ceremony is discrimination and racist, because the Native language is used and needed for the songs and prayers to be blessed by the Creator.

The new restrictions include a four-hour time limit on the Sweat lodge ceremony, which is unrealistic since the inipi includes the heating of the stones, which takes two hours, and two hours for the actual ceremony. The stones need to be heated for at least two hours, otherwise they are cold and the ceremony is neither complete nor beneficial to the healing and prayers. The rationing of firewood in U.S. prisons has deliberately undermined the heating of the stones for ceremony.

Rushing through an ancient ceremony is not proper, it is very sacred. The deliberate attempt to shorten the hours and circumvent the ceremony is sacrilegious and undermining the seriousness and sacredness of the spiritual healing and blessings. Traditional ceremonies are to be held in the ancient and sacred way and manner.

Prison chaplains continue to oversee American Indian ceremonies. The supervision of our inipi by the chaplain is not necessary, because it takes time away from other spiritual and cultural activities. These include talking circles, drumming sessions and Pipe ceremonies that also mandate the presence of the chaplain. During the inipi Ceremony, tobacco, or kinnikinnick (a mixture of sage, cedar and sweet grass) is used for our sacred pipe or Canupa. Very limited amounts of tobacco are allowed for our sacred pipe ceremony. I am a pipe carrier and am not allowed to smoke my pipe with tobacco, kinnikinnick is also not available. I have asked to smoke my pipe in the sacred lodge area and have been told that while the present Chaplain is working for the USP Lewisburg, I will not have access to my pipe.

A part of the ceremony is having a meal after the ceremony has been completed. The USP prison system is denying us the right, to eat this meal after our ceremony. The Native American brothers, are the only group that receives only two meals on the day we have our ceremony. This also changes the way our inipi ceremony has been taught to us by our ancestors.

I ask that those of you who can practice your religion freely do so and keep those of us who continue to fight for our religious freedom, preservation of our Culture, traditions, language, history and dignity in your thoughts and prayers.

Yours in the struggle,

Until freedom is won,

Leonard Peltier

Anyone else watching this as avidly as I am? I can't even wait for the new episode to air on Sunday night - I have On Demand, so I watch it as soon as it's made available. I'm currently a week ahead of the regular Sunday night schedule.

King Henry, played by Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, is far from the fat Henry VIII that we've all learned about in Western Civ classes, but is instead an easy-on-the-eyes 25-year-old royal. And his entourage! Not an ugly one in the bunch.

It has more allure and sex than a soap opera - even guys getting it on with each other - and is still able to go into detail on the plotting and behind the scenes machinations of the politics of the time.

I'll definitely be buying this as soon as the DVD is out, and I'm keeping my fingers crossed that Showtime will continue the saga for more than just this season. I'd love to see their take on different royal dynasties from history, as well.

I got a new cell phone for christmas (well, I really bought it for myself, okay?) - it's one of the new RAZRs. I love it - it has all these near useless but really cool features that I'm still learning to use, but I tried to find the software that would let me hook my phone directly to my PC so that I could download ringtones, pictures, etc. to my phone.

Took me a couple of months, but I finally found ONE lonely copy of the software. Happy happy joy joy.

Not.

I installed the software, and managed to get it to work exactly once. (Of course, that one time was sheer genius - I clipped the MP3 of Dennis Leary's song "I'm an Asshole" so that it was just the chorus, downloaded it to my phone, and now it's my husband's ringtone when he calls me). Since then I've haunted the company's website, in particular the support page and the FAQ page.

No joy. It says I have to download the driver specific to my phone. Okay, I can do that.

I also have to download an update for the software. I can do that, too.

Still no joy.

I finally gave up, after printing out all the help manuals, and emailed customer support. They must outsource their help functions to some third world country, because what I wrote was a short description of the problem I was having, and a plea for "Help, please!"

What did I get in my inbox from them just awhile ago?

"Thank you to reaching Mobile Action USA Service Center. You feedback and comments are important to us company."

That's it. No help.

*sigh*

Okay, I know I'm silly to get this excited about a (very) short interview, but what can I say? A REAL publisher (paper - books in Barnes & Noble, etc) has picked up our "Coming Together" anthologies, and I did a quick interview with Victoria Blisse for the Coming Together Blog.

I snagged this video from Alessia Brio who did it as a promo for the Hurricane Relief Edition (I'm "cloudy"). Cool, huh?

Your Birthdate: July 18

You are a cohesive force - able to bring many people together for a common cause. You tend to excel in work situations, but you also facilitate a lot of social gatherings too. Beyond being a good leader, you are good at inspiring others. You also keep your powerful emotions in check - you know when to emote and when to repress. Your strength: Emotional maturity beyond your years Your weakness: Wearing yourself down with too many responsibilities Your power color: Crimson red Your power symbol: Snowflake Your power month: September

Your Stripper Song Is

Closer by Nine Inch Nails "You let me violate you, you let me desecrate you You let me penetrate you, you let me complicate you Help me I broke apart my insides, help me I�ve got no Soul to tell" When you dance, it's a little scary - and a lot sexy.

This really applies more to Canada, although I've seen it's like just about everywhere.

This past summer, K got into some legal trouble, and we ended up having to go to court in Oshawa to try to get him out on bail.

Now, the Canadian bail system is completely different than that in the US. What an eye opener! Here in the US, if you get arrested, your bail is automatically set (if it's some minor offense), and you just get someone to go to a bail bondsman, pay 10% of your bail to him, and you're out - often the bail bondsman is there waiting on you while the cops finish up your intake paperwork.

Not up north.

If you're arrested in Canada, you have to have a bail hearing in front of a justice of the peace (sort of a minor judge), who then listens to the crown attorney question the person that's signing the bail (or putting up money), otherwise known as the "surety." After listening to all that, the judge then decides how much the person's bail should be. Funny system - a surety can either sign for bail (if they own property), or they can put up a cash bail. Then, when bail is decided, the surety is approved by the judge (no shit, you have to be approved), you sign the papers, and the person gets out. Of course, it's not an in/out system like ours, because the bail hearing isn't held until the next business day, so if you get arrested on a Friday, you're stuck in jail until Monday.

What I didn't know, since I was completely ignorant of their system, is that they can either ask for a cash bail, or the surety signs the bail, if they own property, but under Canadian law, the judge cannot require both. Remember that.

Well, Monday was a holiday. K got picked up Saturday, so he sat in jail until Tuesday, when his sister, his nephew and I made the four hour trip to Oshawa to get him out. His sister owns her home, so she was prepared to sign for his bail, and I was going to act as a surety since I was living with him, and could "supervise."

Now....when all this was going on, there was also the big protest/land occupation going on in Caledonia with the Mohawks. Don't get me wrong, I think that the Mohawks are completely in the right, but it had nothing to do with us, since we live on an Ojibway reserve (keep in mind that Mohawks and Ojibway are traditional enemies going back centuries - doesn't mean anything now, really, but in context, shows the judge's ignorance).

So, we wait all damn day for them to call him into the courtroom. Every person that comes up for bail gets it relatively easy - most just having a surety signing, and several released on their OR....all except this one black guy - the only black guy in court that day, as it turns out. In fact, every single person that came up for bail that day, in that courtroom was white except for that one guy, and K.

So, the black guy doesn't get bail, but I didn't really think anything of it because it was something like his fourth or fifth domestic violence charge.

K is the very last one to go before the judge. Attorneys from both sides question me and his sister pretty thoroughly, and it's obvious that the crown attorney is determined to keep K in jail.

The judge finally says that he's satisfied with me and C as sureties, and then goes on to set his bail. Get this: he wanted C to sign with her property, me to sign with my car, and then $5,000 cash. No shit. I didn't realize at the time that it was against Canadian law - wish I had - but then, the commotion I raised would have been much worse than it was.

It gets worse.

The judge then goes on to say that the reason behind it is that we live on the reserve - C's property is on the reserve - and with the dispute going on in Caledonia (5 hours from Saugeen, where we live), he's wary of accepting C's property as bail. So, that's why his total bail is $20,000!

Um....hello?!?!?! Ojibway - Mohawk. Two different tribes. One has absolutely nothing to do with the other. What it comes down to is the only two guys not to get bail that day are K (not white), and that black guy. Coincidence? I think not.

I finally managed to get him out on Thursday, and my third trip down there, after one of K's friends loaned me the $5,000. But, I had to run the gamut of crown attorneys trying to get him out. Thank goodness for Sue from Aboriginal Legal Aid. I was absolutely lost, and had no freaking idea what I was doing. I probably never would have been able to get him out without her.

While she and the crown attorney are arguing about whether I'm an acceptable surety or not (since I'm a US citizen) - never mind that I was approved earlier - I hear him say "what difference does it make? He's just another drunk indian."

It just never changes, I think. There will always be bigots who can't keep their big mouths shut, and make non-white people carry a much heavier load than whites.

I really thought Canada was more progressive than the US as far as racial tolerance. I was wrong - they both stink.

In 1961 (the year you were born)

John F. Kennedy becomes president of the US An estimated 1200 anti-Castro exiles aided by the US make a failed invasion of Cuba's Bay of Pigs Navy Cmdr. Alan B. Shepard Jr. becomes the first US spaceman rocketing 118 miles above the earth Hurricane "Carla" wipes out Texas gulf cities, claiming 46 lives Russian Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin makes the first manned space flight Wayne Gretzky, Henry Rollins, Fabio, George Clooney, Dennis Rodman, and Diana, Princess of Wales are born New York Yankees win the World series Green Bay Packers win the NFL championship Chicago Blackhawks win the Stanley Cup Disney's One Hundred and One Dalmatians is the top grossing film Catch-22 by Joseph Heller is published The Miracles' "Shop Around" becomes Motown's first million-selling single

For some reason Leonard Peltier's on my mind this morning - I mean, hogging my brain waves. I thought that I'd post an essay I wrote a couple of years ago about his case, and how corrupt the FBI is/was in the way they handled the situation at Pine Ridge back then. When I wrote it, I stated at the beginning exactly how long he'd been unjustly incarcerated. For the record, as I type this, he's now spent 11338 days, 7 hours, 30 minutes, and 36 seconds in prison for a crime he did not commit.

This is something he said that I use part of in my signature - it rings so true to me:

Silence, they say, is the voice of complicity. But silence is impossible. Silence screams. Silence is a message, just as doing nothing is an act. Let who you are ring out & resonate in every word & every deed. Yes, become who you are. There's no sidestepping your own being or your own responsibility. What you do is who you are. You are your own comeuppance. You become your own message. You are the message.

How long will we remain silent, and let this good man stay in prison, away from his family, growing old, suffering diabetes and strokes?

How long?

And Justice For All
copyright 2005, Sherry Hawk

When I typed the first word of this essay, Leonard Peltier had been in prison for 10,719 days, 15 hours, 35 minutes, and 17 seconds for something he did not do. The American public seems to have forgotten about him, and his ongoing struggle to receive justice through our judicial system.

Our judicial system in the states shows more and more bias towards those with money and privilege every year – the case of OJ Simpson is a prime example – but it has always been a system that those with money, those who can afford the best and brightest attorneys, can manipulate with ease. Unfortunately, if you are arrested for a crime in the United States, unless you are able to shell out more money than most make in a year, more times than not your best option may be to take a plea bargain, whether you're actually guilty of the crime or not.

The police and the prosecutors know exactly how to work the system to get what they want, and usually what they want is a solid conviction record. Depending on the people involved, it can happen just as easily that true justice for one accused of a crime doesn't make the slightest bit of difference. Officers are coached on what to testify to, and there's no pity shown for a defendant who may actually be innocent. If you're arrested, then you're as good as guilty to some. I know there are many, many honest and hardworking police officers and prosecuting attorneys in our country, but what about those that aren't? What if you get caught up in something much bigger than you are, and the supposedly blind eye of justice turns in your direction?

That's what happened to Leonard Peltier

Leonard Peltier, a great-grandfather, artist, writer, indigenous rights activist, citizen of the Anishinabe and Lakota nations, and Nobel Peace Price nominee has been unjustly imprisoned since 1976 for the deaths of two FBI agents who died during a 1975 shoot-out on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation.

The Case

During the early to mid-70's there was a rise in grass roots activism here in the United States. One of the groups that became very active during that time is the American Indian Movement, or AIM. The flip side of that coin is the paranoia of the FBI about the grassroots groups that were springing up.

Many people not involved in the shootout at Pine Ridge have testified and written articles about the events leading up to the deaths of the two FBI agents and one tribal member, and most have documented the climate of fear that existed on the Pine Ridge Reservation at that time, and how the FBI turned a blind eye to the way AIM members and others were being treated by a squad of "enforcers" employed by Mr. Dick Wilson, then the Tribal Chairperson. This group, known as the Guardians of the Oglala Nation, or literally the "GOONs," was quite open about its activities. The vigilantes had a close and friendly relationship with the FBI., in fact, they were armed by the FBI with M-16s as a part of the domestic COINTELPRO.(1)

Although there was a massive FBI presence on the reservation during this time period, the officers ignored illegal and often violent GOON roadblocks, and even calls for protection from residents under attack by GOONs, as occurred in the town of Wanblee.(2) GOON leader Duane Brewer has admitted that the FBI officials shared intelligence with the vigilantes about AIM activities, ignored their illegal possession of highly dangerous weapons, and even gave them ammunition on one if not more occasions. Mr. Brewer has specifically mentioned receiving armor piercing ammunition.

During the three years of the "reign of terror" while the GOONs were in power (1973 – 1976), 64 Indians were murdered, all of them American Indian Movement (or "AIM"} supporters or members, or their friends and relatives. Still more were threatened, intimidated, injured and harassed, in some cases with the cooperation of the FBI. None of these murders have been investigated. None. The FBI did, however, find the time and resources to file numerous charges against AIM leaders and supporters. Few had sufficient evidence to result in convictions, and in some cases, the courts rebuked the FBI officers involved for tampering with witness testimony and similar misconduct. Far more serious crimes were being committed by the GOONs, but those were swept under the rug and never investigated. The traditionalist Lakotas of Pine Ridge were allied with AIM, and as a result, suffered under both the GOONs and the FBI during three long years that has been called the reign of terror.

Early in 1975, Leonard Peltier and other AIM members were asked by traditionalists to come to Pine Ridge to help and support the people that were being targeted for violence by the GOONs. He, along with Dennis Banks, Bob Robideau, and Dino Butler, set up camp on a ranch owned by the traditional Jumping Bull family. It was in this atmosphere of fear and oppression that Peltier stepped up to the plate, and did what he thought he needed to do to help those who needed him – he offered support and protection against the GOONs, who by this time were almost literally running things. Much like the Tonton Macoutes of Baby Doc Duvalier in Haiti, the GOONs were Wilson's personal militia to put down dissent by intimidation. The situation was an explosive one, liable to be set off by any small spark, and of course, within a short amount of time, it was.

On June 26, 1975 two FBI agents in unmarked cars, Jack Coler and Ronald Williams, drove at full speed onto the Jumping Bull ranch, following a pickup truck in which they ostensibly thought a minor thief was riding. The families that lived there became alarmed and feared an attack from the agents. Shots were heard and a shoot-out between the FBI and the men there at the Jumping Bull ranch erupted. More than 150 FBI agents, U.S. marshals, BIA police, GOONs, and law enforcement surrounded the ranch almost immediately, seriously outnumbering the approximately 35 AIM members and Jumping Bull family members on the ranch (some of those women and small children). Many of the agents had been in place nearby at least 20 minutes before, according to FBI documents that were released years later.

When it was over, the two FBI agents, Coler and Williams, and one AIM activist, Joe Stuntz Killsright, were dead. The two agents had been wounded during the shoot out, and then later killed at close range by shots to the head. Joseph Stuntz was shot in the head by a sniper. His death has never been investigated. Leonard Peltier and others managed to get off the Jumping Bull ranch, and flee, believing their lives to be in danger.

In the confusion, the FBI didn't know who had actually shot the two agents, but set it's sights on three high-profile AIM leaders: Dino Butler, Robert Robideau, and Leonard Peltier.

Dino Butler and Robert Robideau were arrested very quickly, but Leonard Peltier made it into Canada, where he thought he might claim asylum. Butler and Robideau went to trial first, in federal court in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. The jury there acquitted both men on the grounds of self-defense, finding that their participation in the shoot out was justified given the climate of fear in which it had taken place. Neither man could be tied to the close range shootings of the FBI agents. As an interesting side note, an FBI agent suggested the AIM members had threatened the jurors. Jurors disagreed, explaining that it was the FBI they feared when the verdict was read.

Peltier was eventually arrested in Canada, and extradited when the United States provided Canada with affidavit signed by Myrtle Poor Bear, a woman who was known to be mentally ill, which said that she had seen Peltier shoot the two FBI agents. The FBI put her forward as a witness because they said she was Peltier's girlfriend. In fact, Myrtle Poor Bear had never even met Peltier, and she wasn't present at the shoot out. She later recanted her testimony, saying that the FBI had terrorized and coerced her into signing the statement. Peltier was illegally extradited.

Once the FBI had Peltier back in the United States, they had his case transferred from the court in Iowa where his codefendants had been acquitted to a more conservative federal court in North Dakota. Myrtle Poor Bear was not allowed to testify about her experiences with the FBI – the judge barred her testimony on the grounds that she was mentally ill - and the information about the heightened climate of fear on the reservation during the time leading up to the shoot out was severely restricted.

The FBI's behavior up until this point was reprehensible, but it was about to get much worse.

During the trial, the FBI lied, coerced statements from witnesses, and repressed evidence from the defense, consistently, simply to convict someone, anyone, for the shooting of the two agents at Pine Ridge. Guilt or innocence didn't matter in the least; someone had to pay, and it didn't matter who, as long as it was an AIM member. Leonard Peltier fit the bill perfectly.

* An FBI agent who had previously testified that the agents followed a pickup truck onto the scene, a vehicle that could not be tied to Mr. Peltier, changed his account, stating that the agents had followed a red and white van onto the scene, a vehicle which Mr. Peltier drove on occasion. In fact, Agents Coler and Williams had radioed in that they were following a truck, not a van at all.

* The FBI couldn't find a single witness to identify Mr. Peltier as the shooter.

* The U.S. Attorney prosecuting the case emphatically stated that they had given the defense all FBI documents. To the contrary, more than 18,000 had been withheld in their entirety.

* An FBI ballistics expert testified that a casing found near the agents' bodies matched the gun tied to Mr. Peltier. However, a ballistic test proving that the casing did not come from the gun tied to Mr. Peltier was intentionally concealed. The FBI ballistic expert, Evan Hodge, testified that he had been unable to perform the best test, a firing pin test, on certain casings found near the agents' car, because the rifle in question had been damaged in a fire. Instead, he stated that he had conducted an extractor mark test, and found the weapon and casing to match. Documents obtained years later under the Freedom of Information Act showed that in October 1975, a firing pin ballistics test had indeed been performed on the rifle, and that the results were clearly negative.

* Three adolescent boys gave vague testimony, contradicting their own testimony and that of each other, as to what they had seen the day of the shoot out. All three witnesses later admitted they had been threatened into testifying by the FBI.

* The Court did not permit the jury at the trial to hear about the FBI's practice of using false affidavits and intimidating witnesses in previous cases.

* During the trial, the Prosecutor claimed in summation that, "we proved that he went down to the bodies and executed those two young men at point blank range…" but at the appellate hearing, the government attorney stated, "We had a murder, we had numerous shooters, we do not know who specifically fired what killing shots … we do not know, quote-unquote, who shot the agents." They also stated that he was equally guilty whether he actually killed the two agents or not, simply the fact that he participated at a distance in the shoot out made him guilty. Peltier's two co-defendants participated in the shoot out at a distance, and were acquitted.

* Federal appellate court judge William Webster who sat on the panel that heard Peltier's case was later elected to head the FBI.

The jury, kept in the dark about so many pertinent facts in the case, sentenced Leonard Peltier to two consecutive life terms.

Since then, Peltier's legal team has been fighting almost full-time to right the wrong that has been done to him by our government, and has faced obstacle after obstacle thrown up in their way by the FBI.

After the Freedom of Information Act went into affect, Peltier's legal team filed suit to recover information from the FBI that was not presented to them during the trial. When some of that information was turned over to them, they asked for a new trial for Peltier, citing new evidence had been discovered.

Under current law, Peltier should have been granted a new trial once new evidence had come to light. The Eighth Circuit ruled, "There is a possibility that the jury would have acquitted Leonard Peltier had the records and data improperly withheld from the defense been available to him in order to better exploit and reinforce the inconsistencies casting strong doubts upon the government's case." His request for a new trial, however, was denied. Judge Heaney, who authored the decision denying a new trial, has since been very vocal in his support for Peltier's release, stating that the FBI used improper tactics to convict Peltier, and that the FBI was equally responsible for the shoot-out that resulted in three deaths.

Currently, Peltier's legal team has been involved in a long, drawn out fight to secure the documents that they are legally entitled to under the Freedom of Information Act. Before June 2002, the FBI stated that there were only 6,000 undisclosed documents relating to Peltier's case. In June, when they were ordered to start turning over documents, the amount received by Peltier's team was 30,000 documents. The FBI's estimate of the documents currently being withheld is more than likely just as off. FOIA requests are currently submitted to 30 FBI field offices and are pending. Similar requests have been submitted to the CIA.

There has been a large outcry from the Native American community, Amnesty International, and the U.S. Civil Rights Commission for Congressional hearings to investigate the FBI and it's behavior during this, and other cases, but to date, none have been held.

Normally, a prisoner convicted of homicide serves 200+ months under the Parole Commission Guidelines. Base on those guidelines, Leonard Peltier should have been released from prison on parole over ten years ago. The Parole Commission has repeatedly refused to set a parole date for Peltier until 2008. By then, he will have served nearly double the normal amount of time prisoners serve for homicide. The Parole Commission has stated that its reason for not setting a date is that Peltier has not confessed, or "owned up to" the crime he was convicted of. Should he confess to a crime he didn't commit simply to get out of prison? Some would obviously say "yes;" get it over with and get out. I have to admire the strength and moral fortitude of a man who refuses to confess to a crime he did not commit, even if he could be released by doing so.

The Man

While in prison, Leonard Peltier has proved over and over again what type of man he is. He has:

* Helped several prisoners rehabilitate themselves by advocating drug and alcohol-free lifestyles while encouraging pride and knowledge in their cultures and traditions.

* Worked with Dr. Selkin of New York on efforts to restructure health care on reservations. A pilot program on the Rosebud Reservation was implemented to document needs and requirements of care (The Leonard Peltier Health Care Reform Package). Substance abuse programs are also part of this package.

* Worked with Prof. Jeffery Timmons on a job creation/job training program to stimulate reservation-based economies to end the appalling poverty that affects most of those living there.

* Also established, with Prof. Timmons, a youth entrepreneur program for youth on the reservations to teach them how to establish and run their own businesses.

* Established a scholarship in 1992 at New York University for Native American students seeking law degrees.

* Established and raised funding for a Washington state Native American newspaper run by and for Native youth.

* Sponsored two children in Childreach; one in El Salvador, and one in Guatemala.

* Worked to have prisoners' artwork displayed around the world in art galleries in hopes of starting art programs for prisoners to increase their self-confidence.

* Sponsored clothing and toy drives for reservations every year.

* Distributed funds and goods to Head Start, halfway houses, and women's centers.

* Sponsored a Christmas gift drive for the children of the Pine Ridge Reservation every year.

* Served on the board of the Rosenberg Fund for Children.

* Donated his artwork to human rights and social welfare organizations in order to help them raise funds, including the ACLU, Trail of Hope (a Native American conference dealing with drug and alcohol addiction), World Peace and Prayer Day, the First Nation Student Association, and the Buffalo Trust Fund.

* Donated his paintings to the Leonard Peltier Charitable Foundation to supply computers and educational supplies to libraries and families on Pine Ridge. He was also able to raise the funds for supplies for Pine Ridge after a devastating tornado.

* Won several human rights awards, including the North Star Frederick Douglas Award, Humanist of the Year Award, and the International Human Rights Prize.

* Been nominated for the 2004 Nobel Peace Prize.

The fact that a man such as Leonard Peltier remains in prison, despite the outcry for justice from such people as Bishop Desmond Tutu, Mikail Gorbachov, and Nelson Mandella, can be laid at the door of an FBI that is corrupt to the core, only concerned with convicting someone, whether that someone is actually guilty or not. It is an organization that has resisted turning over documents, even when ordered by the court. If the FBI is so convinced of Peltier's guilt, what have they got to fear by turning those documents over?

There is still the question of the over sixty murders that occurred during the reign of terror that have never been investigated, and it seems that they never will be. Apparently, the FBI thinks that the women and children that died there at Pine Ridge while they turned a blind eye don't merit justice, yet they are willing to keep an innocent man in prison, saying that any AIM member works as well as another for their system of justice.

Peltier suffered a stroke in 1986 that left him almost blind in one eye, and he suffers from diabetes and a heart condition. Despite these health problems, he continues to offer support, both emotionally and financially, for the Native American community from behind the prison walls where he is still confined unjustly. There is no doubt that he will continue to offer his support to the community, whether he is released or not. It is an American tragedy that an innocent man is still in prison simply because an agency of our government doesn't care who actually committed two murders – any Indian will do for their purposes.

Division in the Law Enforcement Community

Mr. Wesley Swearingen (author of "FBI Secrets: An Agent's Expose") stated, "I was an FBI agent in Los Angeles when Leonard Peltier was convicted, and I know from FBI documents that I read, and from statements made by fellow FBI agents, that Peltier was wrongfully convicted of murdering two FBI agents just because the agents investigating the case wanted someone to pay for killing the two FBI agents. I know, for a fact, that the FBI is also covering up its culpability in the death of the two agents."

Robert Newbrook, a retired Canadian police officer who arrested Peltier in Alberta in 1976, stated that he's "haunted by the fact that I now think we seized an innocent man, with no valid Canadian arrest warrant, based on false evidence from the U.S."

Representative Don Edwards was the long-time chairman of the House Judiciary Subcommittee on Civil and Constitutional Rights (it had oversight over the FBI). He is a former FBI agent, himself, and has stated publicly that he was convinced that Peltier never received a fair trial. He said that "in light of the government's admission that the theory it presented against Mr. Peltier at trial was not true, and the fact that the FBI continues to deny its improper conduct on the Pine Ridge Reservation during the 1970's (as well as in the trial of Leonard Peltier), Mr. Peltier should be set free." He also stated that Peltier's release "would recognize past wrongdoing and the undermining of the government's case since trial."

It's long past time to right this wrong done to a good man, a man that was doing the best he could under horrendous circumstances, a man that was hunted down for a crime he didn't commit, and has spent the last 10,719 days, 20 hours, 12 minutes, and 11 seconds in prison.

(1)COINTELPRO is an acronym for a series of FBI counterintelligence programs designed to neutralize political dissidents. Although covert operations have been employed throughout FBI history, the formal COunter INTELligence PROgram, or COINTELPRO, of the period from 1956 to 1971 was the first to be both broadly targeted & centrally directed. The stated goals of COINTELPRO were to expose, disrupt, misdirect, discredit, or otherwise neutralize those persons or organizations that the FBI decided were enemies of the State.

The FBI used COINTELPRO tactics against AIM, including the wholesale jailing of the Movement's leadership. Virtually every known AIM leader in the United States was incarcerated in either state or federal prisons since (or even before) the organization's formal emergence in 1968, some repeatedly. After the 1973 siege of Wounded Knee, for example, the FBI caused 542 separate charges to be filed against those it identified as key AIM leaders. This resulted in only 15 convictions, all on such petty or contrived offenses as interfering with a federal officer in the performance of his duty. Organization members often languished in jail for months as the cumulative bail required to free them outstripped resource capabilities of AIM and supporting groups.

(2) Al Trimble, a reform candidate, defeated Dick Wilson for the tribal presidency in 1975. Trimble faced physical violence, including an attack in a restaurant where he and his wife were eating dinner. Later, two of his high school-age sons were pistol whipped, according to reports, at the hands of the GOONs. His car and that of his wife were tailed constantly, and were often stopped for perceived violations or non-violations. Evenings at home for the Trimbles were shattered by gunshots from passing cars, apparently driven by GOONs.

In the four month interim between Trimble's victory and his inauguration, the tribal government offices and treasury were sacked. GOONs were dispatched to Wanblee, a traditionalist stronghold and the Trimble family hometown, in a punitive raid to "straighten out" loyalists there. The straightening out included a hail of automatic weapons fire, and a car chase that left one dead and another severely injured.

***************

I have other, more personal stories of injustice that still goes on today, but I'll leave those until tonight.

If you want to get involved in the fight to free Leonard Peltier, there's a link to the left for his Defense Committee. At least spread the word that justice isn't really for all.

I've been called "selfish" more times than I care to remember over the last couple of years.

self·ish concerned excessively or exclusively with oneself : seeking or concentrating on one's own advantage, pleasure, or well-being without regard for others

I'll review, just so that those few who haven't seen one of my rants about my soon-to-be-ex-husband will be up to speed: About four years ago, I was working as a store manager, making 40K+ a year, and was feeling the beginnings of retail burnout. I thought that my husband was being considerate when he suggested that I quit, and stay home to raise my youngest, as I hadn't been able to do that with my other two kids.

I was so, so wrong.

Since then, I've heard continuously that I'm selfish, that all the money that comes into the household is his, and his alone, and that I live only on his sufferance.

Several years ago, he looked at a Cadillac STS...told me to go drive it. I did, and told him later that evening that it was okay, but I didn't like it.

What does he do? He trades my Trans Am in on it. Yep, you read that right.

A few months ago, I started begging to trade it in. I want something smaller, maybe a Maxima, an Altima, something like that. One night he takes off (he never, ever tells me where he's going) in the dually, stays gone an hour or so, then comes back in, obviously pleased with himself.

"Want to come see what I traded the dually in on?"

Okay, I should have known better, but I got excited. Stupid me.

He'd traded the dually in on a fucking Suburban.

"What about my Maxima?" I was whining, I admit it.

"I don't want to trade the Cadillac right now." And that's how matters stood until today.

He took the day off, for whatever reason, and he leaves around 11 am, stays gone a good while, and comes home with a trailer behind the suburban. Guess what's on it? A fucking motorcycle - for him, of course. Another vehicle payment.

I still don't have a car that I like. I hate him.

But I'm selfish.

I have a squillion-million things I should be doing right now. It's noon, and what I have I gotten accomplished today? That's a big, fat zero, baby.

My living room looks like Toys-R-Us exploded, there is very little left in the way of groceries, and the car payment has to be taken by the credit union, but it seems that I've perfected my I-don't-give-a-shit attitude. At least for now.

Oh, and there's a couple of stories I've promised to finish writing and one I was already supposed to be finished editing as of three days ago.

Did I mention the laundry?

Fuck it. It'll keep until tomorrow. It's cold and dreary today, and I think I'll just curl up on the couch with a book.

I've decided that I'm going to document how much beer the RA (resident asshole/bully)brings home every day - and it IS everyday, no kidding - and the latest stupid fight. Most of them are ridiculous and he starts them because he craves conflict, I believe. Oh, and I don't have anything against drinking beer - been known to have a few myself - but there's something way wrong if someone drinks between a six-pack and a twelve pack every damn day.

Latest Battle: Last night he had put some of that Children's Tylenol liquid in the little cup for our six-year-old...he's been coughing and had an off and on fever. He got frustrated because C wouldn't just gulp it down, and threatened to make him drink another entire dose if C didn't drink it right then.

I listened, but didn't say anything for the moment.

When C didn't immediately hop to it, and drink it down (he's SIX, wtf?), he jerked the little cup out of his hand, and poured it full again, then ordered him to drink that, as well.

That's when I spoke up. Hello??? You don't use medicine as a punishment, and even though it probably wouldn't have done any harm, I'm not going to sit by and watch my little one take double the dosage just because butthead lost his temper.

So he's pissed at me now. Who cares.

Beer: 12-pack. Busch today (gawd, that shit's nasty. He could at least drink something decent)