Two
Articles From:
The Daily
Independent
Ashland, Kentucky
Monday,
January 21, 2002
Online
journal of prison life
Pacifist
writes about his time at FCI
http://www.dailyindependent.com/archives/january_02/21/local1.html
By
George Wolfford
For
The Daily Independent
SUMMIT — A pacifist who got out of the federal prison camp here a
week ago has published — online — a journal of what the past six
months have been like from behind bars.
John Ewers, a retired manager from National Cash
Register Co. in Dayton, caught a Greyhound bus from the Ashland
terminal at 3:15 a.m. last Monday, headed home. He and fellow
protester, Bill Houston, 71, a retired professor from Antioch College
at Yellow Springs, Ohio, served six-month terms for trespassing on
federal property, the U.S. Army base at Fort Benning, Ga.
Ewers' journal is apparently the first such account
published in the 61-year history of the Federal Correctional
Institution, Ashland. It is limited by his own personal experience but
reaches further than any previous publication because of the Internet
connection.
Life behind FCI's fences has long been private, based
on a combination of inmate confidentiality and bureaucratic secrecy.
Last year, 50-year-old letters from one of the prison's most famous
guests were published by his granddaughter. Dashiell Hammet, creator
of Sam Spade and ``The Thin Man," spent six months here for
contempt of Congress during the Joseph McCarthy witchhunt.
From that same era, civil-rights figure Bayard Rustin's biography
touches on his stay here. Five years ago the Rev. George R. Castillo,
a retired chaplain, wrote about the prison and others in his book,
``My Life Between the Cross and Bars."
Ewers and Houston were among 26 protesters fined and
sent to prisons for their actions in trying to shut down the School of
the Americas in the fall of 2000.
Among the 26 were several Catholic nuns, including Dorothy Marie
Hennesey, 88, who turned down a judge's offer of house arrest so she
could go to prison with the others. Her sister, Gwen, 68, also a nun,
has published a parallel Internet journal of her own experiences at
the prison at Pekin, Ill.
The 26 and their supporters maintain that the School of the
Americas, which trains Latin American armies in counterinsurgency,
effectively holds down democracy. Troops who learned their lessons at
the school, they say, have been responsible for murder and oppression
of the poor — and of missionaries and ministers who encouraged the
poor to band together.
The protest is not new. For at least 11 years hundreds
have come to Columbus, Ga., home of Fort Benning, for an annual
funeral march outside Army grounds. Numbers of them have forced their
way onto those grounds, knowing they were breaking the law. Ewers
compares their approach of civil disobedience to that of Gandhi,
Martin Luther King Jr. and Jesus Christ.
In a sense, the campaign became successful before
Ewers went to prison. The Army did away with the School of the
Americas in December 2000. It was replaced by the Western Hemisphere
Institute for Security Cooperation, which is operated by the
Department of Defense.
That's the fourth name the school has operated under in its 55-year
existence.
In November, when Ewers was in prison and it came time to protest
again, Gen. John LeMoyne, commander, voiced empathy for the protesters
and even invited students inside to see what went on. G. Mallon
Faircloth, the same magistrate who sentenced the SOA26, declared that
protesters had a constitutional right to conduct a mock funeral march
outside the base.
Although muncipal government tried to block the march, the city of
Columbus welcomed the tourist dollars — $80 a day spent by the
average protester.
The Army breathed a sigh of relief when actor Martin Sheen, a past
participant, didn't show up this time. The community's traditional
peanut vendor did show up to add a carnival atmosphere to the
procession.
There were still 31 incursions onto Army property, but as yet, no
new indictments. It's early, in light of previous court action.
In 1998, Ewers and 2,300 others swarmed inside, too many to indict,
so they got a letter of warning, effective for five years. In '99 he
came back, part of a lead group that went in. After they trespassed
again in 2000, they were indicted. In addition to the six-month term,
Ewers was fined $1,000. And when he went to prison his Social Security
was cut off for the period, costing another $8,000.
Most of the protesters, like Ewers, say they would do it again,
saying they are simply standing up for what is right.
``We consider it part of our process to keep some of us in jail.
It's a special contract, underlining what we're trying to
accomplish," he said.
But now, in a time when insurgency is often identified with
international terrorism, a church in his own Presbyterian community
canceled Ewers' scheduled talk on civil disobedience, which was moved
to another church.
For the most part, he said Thursday, his arrival home
has been gratifying, with 60 to 75 greeting him at Dayton and
intensive coverage by Dayton media.
``All of them asked the same question you did," he said,
``whether I would do it again. I said: 'Yes, if the circumstances
presented themselves." I don't know what role will unfold for me.
I feel very comfortable and am surprised it worked out as well as it
has."
A
Lesson in Bureaucracy, Prisoner Nature
By
George Wolfford
For The Daily Independent
SUMMIT — In his Internet journal, John Ewers offers an unusual
approach to his coming six-month incarceration, opening by saying, ``I
feel like I'm in a retreat."
His time at the Federal Correctional Institute's prison camp at
Summit had some elements of a retreat-like atmosphere: Ewers shed 26
pounds during his confinement,
As time went on, Ewers' stay became a lesson in
bureaucracy and prisoner nature. Ewers' own nature — dedicated but
sometimes naive — shows through as he buckles down to meet the
picayune demands of structured life.
He wanted to work and was shocked that it took 5½ weeks to process
his paperwork before he could start repairs and painting. His cohort,
Bill Houston, was content to relax for most of the six months.
``I'm a teacher and we never work very hard anyway," Houston
said with a smile.
Ewers was upset that rules force the occupants of
lower bunks to use the larger of two lockers, regardless of any
agreement between cellmates. He chafes at a limitation on the number
of photos that can be displayed. He still can't believe that bonus
payment for work accomplishment was pulled because of upper-level
budget shifts. (He got $25 for a month's pay, but not the $13 bonus he
counted on to pay for phone calls.)
Such arbitrary rules are reminiscent of the six months of active
duty he spent in the pre-Vietnam Army, his last period under
government control, Ewers said.
Ewers read, enjoyed his mail and looked forward to ``putting on
fresh greens" when his wife, Paula, visited on weekends. He
learned from inmates who had been in other prisons that food is better
here. ``Life in the compound is slow-moving except a mad dash to get
in the chow line," he wrote in his journal.
Beyond that, he picked up a fresh cause — what he saw as
mandatory sentences that were too harsh for the nature of the crimes.
Of course, his information came from fellow inmates,
most of whom have few interests outside their own lives. Ewers was
surprised at the lack of discussion on current events. He also noted
that in group conversation, profanity was rife, although curse words
were rare in one-on-one discussions.
He also came away feeling ``there is no focused
program of correction in this correctional institution" —
little training for the outside, although inmates without diplomas had
mandatory GED sessions and were offered other studies.
Ewers and Houston spent their terms not in the prison
proper. They were in the camp a half-mile away, in open cells and
given the run of the place. A fence was erected in recent days, having
nothing to do with them but meant to keep inmates from roaming late at
night. ``It's also meant to make the community feel more secure,"
said Pam Hernandez, administrative assistant.
The 260 prisoners in the camp are considered non-violent, although
Ewers mentions that one man was placed in solitary confinement at the
main prison for fighting. Many are white-collar criminals, although
half are likely winding down sentences for drug violations.
Both men said the freedoms and treatment they
experienced made it obvious that administrators and officers didn't
see them as criminals.
Still, as Rev. George R. Castillo (a minister who has written about
life in that prison and others) said, simple limitation of movement
has tremendous impact on an inmate's psyche.
GEORGE WOLFFORD is a freelance writer living in
Ashland.
