Gaoled for Jabiluka
          by Jo Vallentine

JABILUKA | THE NORTHERN TERRITORY

On being in gaol from 24 - 31 January, 2000

I'm glad I did it, for Yvonne Margarula & the Mirrar. That made sense, being incerated on Survival Day, in solidarity with the traditional owners of this land, fighting to protect their country. They don't deserve the double whammy of a second dispossession. They deserve respect. They don't want Boyweg disturbed to get uranium out of the ground.

In their own words, the mine would mean genocide for their tiny but spirited group of people at Jabiluka. Personal inconvenience to me I saw as a privilege to follow my conscience, refusing to pay the fine for so-called trespass. I felt good upholding the tradition of civil disobedience - I prefer to call it holy obedience - to a higher law than that of the government which is protecting and supporting big business against the interests of the indigenous people.

It's not easy, being inside, stripped of liberty, privacy, personal possessions and one's own agenda. I think the noise was the worst feature. It seemed not to stop until hours after lock-down at 7 p.m. The early hours of the morning, before unlock, were the best time, when there was light, and quiet. I missed the sunsets and the stars - only a tiny rectangle of sky visible through the window, bricked and screened over, disallowing any breeze from flowing through. And it was hot. Very hot. Sharing my cell with a smoker one night was very trying - I lay in a pool of sweat, longing for morning. To get out of my bed, I had to step on my cellmate's mattress on the floor. That's where I slept on the first night, with my head butted up to the toilet bowl.

Overcrowding made for a pressure-cooker atmosphere. Frequent eruptions occurred. Finding a place for quiet time was not easy. I circled the trees in a walking meditation, and was thankful for the gardens, tended lovingly by some inmates.

I was pleasantly surprised by the welcoming attitude of most inmates towards me. I hadn't expected that. I represented a fresh pair of ears, and was told lots of stories. Sad and funny. I felt saddest for the pregnant young women, and those who refer to Bandyup as home.

There is so much pain, both physical and emotional, and most of it is not dealt with to the sufferers' satisfaction. Officers seemed to be on bantering terms with many of the inmates, some of whom they seemed to know very well. They were polite to me, but I didn't want to talk with them more than was necessary. I kept my head down, and thought I was being very inconspicuous, but still I heard my name being called to report to the compound office frequently. The staff generally seem to be efficient and hard working, in very difficult circumstances. The prison runs on filling out forms - for everything ------visits, phone calls, requests of the administration, medication, doing courses. And every form results in a call-up on the loud-speaker system. And everything that is about to begin is announced. It is highly intrusive. As I cleaned the compound's cobwebs one day, being careful not to kill any spiders, I accidentally detached some of the wiring for the loud-speakers. I quite forgot to report that!

Morning muster is a formal affair - standing silently to attention in full gear outside one's cell door while officers rush around ticking off names and checking for clean and tidy rooms, referred to by the inmates as their "houses." Afternoon muster I kept forgetting - attempting some rest time between the sheets, when suddenly it was on. In ten seconds flat we were expected to be there - I got dressed very fast! Eating was a rushed business…..should one stand in the medo. Line or the food line first. Whichever one I went to seemed to take forever to get going. Then a mad rush. If I was towards the end of the food line, it was a ten minute bolt the food down before the dining room was cleared. Vegetarian food was provided - vegan more challenging.

Fortunately, my "medication" - ginseng and feverfew to ward off migraines, which I'd been told might be difficult to have accepted, were made available, but of course, that meant the dreaded line-up twice daily. Frequent shuffling of inmates from cell to cell, from one area of the prison to another seemed to be a common occupation. The large plastic bag syndrome was ever-present, bringing new inmates' gear from reception, or holding everything in a move of "house." Attendance at a Royal Perth Hospital course on blood borne diseases was compulsory. I have a certificate to show I've done it. Then there was massage practice for the women doing a short course, so I provided a body.

I went to a Prison Fellowship session, where I met a very stressed out woman, who'd just been signed in - she was in great distress as she had not been psychologically prepared for prison, and had just been given a heavy sentence. More to my liking was the ecumenical service on Sunday, led by a gentle and sensitive woman chaplain. Each of these occasions was attended by only a handful of women. The culture of the prison doesn't encourage participation in programmes or enthusiasm about anything. It's a place of much gossip and inter-weaving of networks and relationships. Motivation for self improvement seems low.

But some women work hard, knowing that time passes more quickly when you're busy. Apart from the regular workers in kitchen, laundry, library, reception, industrial workshop and the garden crew, it seemed hard work for officers to encourage women to do the general cleaning jobs required on a daily basis. Remand prisoners cannot be asked to work, and there are many of them. Also many women not yet sentenced, or awaiting appeals. All of this attention on legal status accounts for the reluctance of women to involve themselves in useful activity. Each day I learnt more about how to make life a little easier…..where to make a cuppa at any time apart from lock-down times, that items like fans, bedside lights, music machines could be purchased through the canteen - but I didn't have any money for "spends". Also, thinking ahead before lock-down to figure out whether I wanted to turn the light on (outside the door) to be switched off later by the officer on duty. Otherwise, darkness or television would be my companion as the daylight faded.

Finding some good books in the library was a relatively normal thing to do, but I couldn't find much time to read. At first I wandered around with a book on creative visualization, borrowed from my first cellmate (it was just the right book for the moment), but I began to feel uncomfortable reading in the queues in case it might have seemed to others that I didn't want to converse with them. Far from the truth, but I was also aware of imposing on others' space, and that I was adding to the overcrowding. Getting messages from outside was highly significant, and the two one-hour visits I had from family and friends were very important. I hadn't been forgotten!

After such a short incarceration, I am more in awe than ever of campaigners who manage prison for years …… how on earth could Nelson Mandela come out of 27 years of prison and be sane, courageous, compassionate and even generous of spirit towards his adversaries. What an extraordinary person!