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λεπτομέρειες

  • Όνομα κυβέρνηση: Mark Dixon
  • Αριθμός Μητρώου: R-01558
  • Ηλικία:32
  • Ώρα Σερβίρεται:14 χρόνια
  • Town Home:Σικάγο, Illinois
  • Πρόταση:35 χρόνια
  • Ρεύμα φόρτισης:1st Degree Murder, 2 Απόπειρες φόνου
  • Ψευδώνυμο:Chyna Bo
  • Ημερομηνία κυκλοφορίας:2034
  • Συνεργασία Prison:Μαθητής Gangster
  • Κύκλο επιρροής:LaBron Neal Μπέη, Υποχωρώ
  • Ίδρυμα:Pickneyville Correctional Center
  • Με κάθε παιδί δολοφονήθηκε στους δρόμους, το bullseye στο κεφάλι σας μεγαλώνει.

War of the Cages: Prisoners Fight for Humanity

prison cell

Having been locked up since the age of eighteen, at age thirty-three, I see prison differently. What once was a dark, cold hell has turned into something more like a battlefield. What’s the difference? Για ορεκτικά, hell implies that you have died and been judged. Then there’s the constant wailing and gnashing of teeth that comes from constantly being tortured. Prison actually contains neither.

Ναι, sometimes prison may make prisoners wish they were dead, but old man death can be a stubborn bastard. Prison is more like a battlefield. It’s gritty, dirty, and you don’t want to be there. Ακόμη, you are stuck. The only answer is to learn to embrace the struggle. Each year gone by is like a victory, and every victory is another step in the journey home.

Bruised, scarred, and traumatized, I feel blessed to have a grip on life in the midst of the chaos that is prison. My mind and spirit have been cleaned and oiled like a military assault rifle as my comrades and I crawl through the concrete jungles of the Illinois Department of Corrections.

What once was a simple mission to gain freedom has morphed into an all out war to remain.

While many convicts would tell you the enemy is the system, or corrections officers, I feel it is bigger than that.

My battle is to remain human despite all of the power being used to dehumanize me.

“What’s your number inmate?!” a corrections guard asks. My intellect ducks the bullet of brainwashing as it whizzes by. I can’t help but think, humans don’t have numbers; only products and inanimate objects have numbers. The thought fires back at the guard as I think to myself, that number ain’t mine, I use it when needed.

Although small to outsiders, us warriors, whose two-toned light and dark blue uniforms identify us, recognize the danger in blindly moving along.

Even if only in your mind, you must always fight to see your humanity.

Thrown in a cage, fed meals fit for an animal, isolated from the world, prisoners may easily lose sight of themselves. The result of losing sight of one’s humanity is as devastating as any war injury. Men who were once someone’s baby boy, or perhaps some woman’s husband, are now reduced to scavengers lurking in the shadows hoping to feed from the carcasses of the vulnerable as they lay injured in the battlefield.

Men who are not strong enough to endure prison fall victim. Victim to the foul beasts of prison rape, snitching to guards, and other animalistic practices. The practice of senseless violence against other prisoners. The practice of idleness so severe it gets in the way of the pursuit of freedom. The pitfalls of prison litter the battlefield like landmines. Multiply the number of the fallen by the year and the outside world reveals its teeth.

Ακόμη, Εγώ, and those like me, struggle to be something useful to a waiting world, ένα ανθρώπινο ον. We continue to fight for humanity with only our dignity, ήθη, and will as our weapons. We march as determined as any soldier because our lives depend on it. For us the only options are victory or death.

Nobody wants to die in prison. Nobody.

  

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