walidah (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} badsis) wrote,@ 2008-09-04 10:39:00 |
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Lost Souljahs: Remembering Hasan and Bashir
On Aug. 31st, I received an email that Black Panther Party political prisoner Bashir Hameed passed away after 27 years of wrongful incarceration because of his struggle for liberation. He passed away on Aug. 30. The day I heard about it is also the two year anniversary of the execution of Texas Death Row political organizer Hasan Shakur (Derrick Frazier). Along with the three year anniversary of Hurricanes Katrina and Rita and the destruction of the Gulf Region, and the what we thought was the impending devestation to be caused by Gustav, it was definitely a Black August to test our wills and our spirit, and to remind us of so much that we have been through and will go through, as we struggle for justice and freedom around the globe.
I never knew Bashir personally, but have heard about him for many years from Black Panther Party political prisoner Sundiata Acoli. Sundiata tells so many stories about Bashir, who was one of his closest comrades. In fact, Bashir is apparently the one who got Sundiata to work out regularly. Sundiata and I have both bonded on our dislike of the necessary exercise routine. Out here, it is something that you need to stay healthy -- inside, it is a necessity to your mental sanity. That's how I have always thought of Bashir, as a stabilizing force.
And now he has become part of the ancestors, part of a force to remind us to continue to push through when it is hard and difficult, when we think we can't go on anymore. I have Hasan's voice in my head constantly, telling me, "C'mon cousin [he always told everyone we were cousins], get up, you got work to do, ain't no time for playing." Though we wrote each other for years, I only got to meet Hasan one time, the day before his execution. He spent the visit keeping me strong, anchoring me in our history and making plans for the future, plans that included his execution, making sure folks carried on with the work. His last words were of struggle, of hope.
For all of the history I have studied, the political movements and the repression, struggles for liberation and backlash, I did not think they would kill Hasan Aug. 31, 2006. As we waited outside the prison protesting, I didn't think it would happen. Even as the minutes ticked by after the scheduled time and we heard nothing. It wasn't until his wife came out, her head bowed and shoulders wracked with tears that I realized how naive I had been all along, and how privileged I had been to believe there would be even an ounce of justice for this government, from this system.
The prison system killed Bashir as surely as they executed Hasan. If he had been on the outside, they could have found his cancer sooner, and they could have taken care of it. Or maybe he wouldn't have been exposed to the carcinogens that gave him cancer in the first place. But instead they took his life, after robbing him of thirty years. Thirty years for doing the right thing.
And there are so many more, so many hundreds of people in this country sitting in prison for 20, 25, 30, 35, 40 fucking years. For us. For me. And they're getting older. Sundiata is 71 years old. Mumia has never touched his granchildren's faces. Some of our political prisoners have resigned themselves to the fact; they believe they will die in prison. Just like Bashir.
And I know we are all dealing with so much out here, fighting on so many fronts, trying just not to lose ground every day. But I can't help but feel a pain and a weight that it is our responsibility to give them an answer. To be able to look them in the eye and say, "No. That will never happen. We will not allow it. We will break the walls with our bodies before we allow you to be taken from us."
I want to see Sundiata home. I want to see him sitting on a couch with his grandchildren climbing all over him with the smell of home cooking drifting in from the kitchen. I want them all home. Isn't 33 years enough? 40? 25? Must it be their lives as well? Is the only action left for us to mourn then?
And when they do come home, what kind of support do they get, what kind of welcome? Political Prisoner Ali Khalid Abdullah was released from prison after 20 years a couple of months ago. I can only imagine how hard it is. It is a celebration that this brotha came home, but now a whole new journey is starting for him. We have to make sure we are also giving the people who are released the support they need as well.
I'm just tired and heartsore. I am tired of losing people. I am tired of having people swept away. I know there are so many people doing so much good work, so many folks stretched to a breaking point. I know I could do more. I know we are at a loss as to what to do sometimes. I know we are overwhelmed. I know that I am tired. I just want to be able to look in the faces of all the political prisoners, of all hte people I know who are incarcerated and tell them, "Yes." For once, I just want to be able to say yes with confidence and conviction.
NATIONAL MINISTRY OF CULTURE
PO BOX 25332, NEWARK, NJ 07101
201-602-0780
September 2, 2008
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
FREEDOM FIGHTER RETURNS TO JERSEY FOR FUNERAL
On Thursday, September 4th, funeral rites will take place for freedom fighter Basheer Hameed at Masjid Dar Ul Islam, 602-616 Salem Avenue, in Elizabeth. Services will begin at 9:30a.m.
RosettaYork’s boldest son was raised in Linden, New Jersey. In 1968, he joined the Black Panther Party while in Oakland, California inspired by the enormous revolutionary activities and upheavals of that incredible period. When he returned to New Jersey, he served as deputy chairman, helping to establish chapters and recruits throughout the overhype upsouth state. It was these organizing efforts that made him a target for the U.S. government COINTELPRO operations which did more to destroy the Black Liberation Movement than single force of that time.
“Growing up in Roselle, one of my best friend’s used to tell me about this big, tall brave uncle who was a Panther, who always had to live on the run because the police where always looking for him for as long as he knew,” explained Zayid Muhammad, the Party’s national minister of culture who has been an outspoken advocate for Black political prisoners for over 20 years.
“That uncle was Rosetta York’s courageous son, Basheer Hameed, whom we all come to know and love, a man of amazing strength and character, one of my supreme heros.”
In 1981, Hameed, along with his codefendant and Panther comrade Abdul Majid, were wrongly convicted for the murder of a Queens police officer, even though authorities had strong evidence that the actual killers were known drug runners. Hence they became known as the Queens 2. They were both sentenced to 25 years to life and have exhausted all of their appeals. Recently, Hameed became the subject of a campaign to receive proper medical care upon falling seriously ill. New York Governor Paterson ultimately authorized his proper hospitalization, only to find out he was afflicted with pancreatic cancer, a rare but fast-acting illness. He returned to the ancestors on August 30th, ironically the Black August birth anniversary of his Panther comrade, Fred Hampton…
On Aug. 31st, I received an email that Black Panther Party political prisoner Bashir Hameed passed away after 27 years of wrongful incarceration because of his struggle for liberation. He passed away on Aug. 30. The day I heard about it is also the two year anniversary of the execution of Texas Death Row political organizer Hasan Shakur (Derrick Frazier). Along with the three year anniversary of Hurricanes Katrina and Rita and the destruction of the Gulf Region, and the what we thought was the impending devestation to be caused by Gustav, it was definitely a Black August to test our wills and our spirit, and to remind us of so much that we have been through and will go through, as we struggle for justice and freedom around the globe.
I never knew Bashir personally, but have heard about him for many years from Black Panther Party political prisoner Sundiata Acoli. Sundiata tells so many stories about Bashir, who was one of his closest comrades. In fact, Bashir is apparently the one who got Sundiata to work out regularly. Sundiata and I have both bonded on our dislike of the necessary exercise routine. Out here, it is something that you need to stay healthy -- inside, it is a necessity to your mental sanity. That's how I have always thought of Bashir, as a stabilizing force.
And now he has become part of the ancestors, part of a force to remind us to continue to push through when it is hard and difficult, when we think we can't go on anymore. I have Hasan's voice in my head constantly, telling me, "C'mon cousin [he always told everyone we were cousins], get up, you got work to do, ain't no time for playing." Though we wrote each other for years, I only got to meet Hasan one time, the day before his execution. He spent the visit keeping me strong, anchoring me in our history and making plans for the future, plans that included his execution, making sure folks carried on with the work. His last words were of struggle, of hope.
For all of the history I have studied, the political movements and the repression, struggles for liberation and backlash, I did not think they would kill Hasan Aug. 31, 2006. As we waited outside the prison protesting, I didn't think it would happen. Even as the minutes ticked by after the scheduled time and we heard nothing. It wasn't until his wife came out, her head bowed and shoulders wracked with tears that I realized how naive I had been all along, and how privileged I had been to believe there would be even an ounce of justice for this government, from this system.
The prison system killed Bashir as surely as they executed Hasan. If he had been on the outside, they could have found his cancer sooner, and they could have taken care of it. Or maybe he wouldn't have been exposed to the carcinogens that gave him cancer in the first place. But instead they took his life, after robbing him of thirty years. Thirty years for doing the right thing.
And there are so many more, so many hundreds of people in this country sitting in prison for 20, 25, 30, 35, 40 fucking years. For us. For me. And they're getting older. Sundiata is 71 years old. Mumia has never touched his granchildren's faces. Some of our political prisoners have resigned themselves to the fact; they believe they will die in prison. Just like Bashir.
And I know we are all dealing with so much out here, fighting on so many fronts, trying just not to lose ground every day. But I can't help but feel a pain and a weight that it is our responsibility to give them an answer. To be able to look them in the eye and say, "No. That will never happen. We will not allow it. We will break the walls with our bodies before we allow you to be taken from us."
I want to see Sundiata home. I want to see him sitting on a couch with his grandchildren climbing all over him with the smell of home cooking drifting in from the kitchen. I want them all home. Isn't 33 years enough? 40? 25? Must it be their lives as well? Is the only action left for us to mourn then?
And when they do come home, what kind of support do they get, what kind of welcome? Political Prisoner Ali Khalid Abdullah was released from prison after 20 years a couple of months ago. I can only imagine how hard it is. It is a celebration that this brotha came home, but now a whole new journey is starting for him. We have to make sure we are also giving the people who are released the support they need as well.
I'm just tired and heartsore. I am tired of losing people. I am tired of having people swept away. I know there are so many people doing so much good work, so many folks stretched to a breaking point. I know I could do more. I know we are at a loss as to what to do sometimes. I know we are overwhelmed. I know that I am tired. I just want to be able to look in the faces of all the political prisoners, of all hte people I know who are incarcerated and tell them, "Yes." For once, I just want to be able to say yes with confidence and conviction.
NATIONAL MINISTRY OF CULTURE
PO BOX 25332, NEWARK, NJ 07101
201-602-0780
September 2, 2008
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
FREEDOM FIGHTER RETURNS TO JERSEY FOR FUNERAL
On Thursday, September 4th, funeral rites will take place for freedom fighter Basheer Hameed at Masjid Dar Ul Islam, 602-616 Salem Avenue, in Elizabeth. Services will begin at 9:30a.m.
RosettaYork’s boldest son was raised in Linden, New Jersey. In 1968, he joined the Black Panther Party while in Oakland, California inspired by the enormous revolutionary activities and upheavals of that incredible period. When he returned to New Jersey, he served as deputy chairman, helping to establish chapters and recruits throughout the overhype upsouth state. It was these organizing efforts that made him a target for the U.S. government COINTELPRO operations which did more to destroy the Black Liberation Movement than single force of that time.
“Growing up in Roselle, one of my best friend’s used to tell me about this big, tall brave uncle who was a Panther, who always had to live on the run because the police where always looking for him for as long as he knew,” explained Zayid Muhammad, the Party’s national minister of culture who has been an outspoken advocate for Black political prisoners for over 20 years.
“That uncle was Rosetta York’s courageous son, Basheer Hameed, whom we all come to know and love, a man of amazing strength and character, one of my supreme heros.”
In 1981, Hameed, along with his codefendant and Panther comrade Abdul Majid, were wrongly convicted for the murder of a Queens police officer, even though authorities had strong evidence that the actual killers were known drug runners. Hence they became known as the Queens 2. They were both sentenced to 25 years to life and have exhausted all of their appeals. Recently, Hameed became the subject of a campaign to receive proper medical care upon falling seriously ill. New York Governor Paterson ultimately authorized his proper hospitalization, only to find out he was afflicted with pancreatic cancer, a rare but fast-acting illness. He returned to the ancestors on August 30th, ironically the Black August birth anniversary of his Panther comrade, Fred Hampton…
