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mass incarceration
The Trump Admin Wants the Prairieland Sentences to Scare You Into Silence
NSPM-7 is the architecture of a system designed to make dissent unthinkable, but it won’t work.
Jun 29, 2026
Mari Rueda's favorite color is blue, as is, sometimes, her hair. She used to live with two cats, two rabbits, a dog, and her tween child. She was a casual gardener and an enthusiastic karaoke singer in training to be a doula. Des Sanchez Estrada is a tattoo artist, poet, and animal lover who sometimes fostered orphaned baby possums and liked experimenting with vegan cooking. Des and Mari are married. One year into the Trump administration's violent campaign of mass deportation and immigrant roundups, they are facing a combined century in federal prison: 70 years for Mari, 30 for Des. Their crimes? Mari went to a noise demonstration outside an Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) detention center. Des moved a box of zines.
On July 4, 2025, Mari joined dozens of others at a noise demonstration outside the Prairieland ICE Detention Center in Alvarado, Texas. Noise demonstrations are a commonly used form of protest solidarity; I've been to a number of them outside metro Atlanta jails over the years. People gather outside carceral facilities and get loud, because the people inside have no other way of knowing that anyone outside is fighting for them. People bang pots and pans, play music, sometimes set off fireworks. The vibes are generally good, until police invariably show up.
Prairieland sits on the discordantly cheery-sounding Sunflower Lane, 40 miles southwest of Dallas. It's a private prison run for profit by LaSalle Corrections, designed to hold 707 people, although it usually cages more than a thousand. Like every ICE detention center, it has a documented record of inadequate medical care, suicide prevention failures, and deaths in custody.
When police showed up to interrupt the July 4 noise demo, things devolved into chaos quickly. One of the responding officers had a gun trained on an unarmed protester who was running away, and Benjamin Song, a former Marine and firearms trainer, acted in a split second: He fired a shot at the officer, who sustained an injury to his neck and was discharged from the hospital hours later. It's obviously a very good thing that this wasn't a fatal shot—but we didn't need to look much further into the future for what Song was fearful of to come to pass. In Minneapolis, federal agents shot and killed two protesters within a three-week period this January.
The people who show up outside detention centers, who defend forests and animals, who organize bail funds and drive people to demonstrations, are not doing it because they expect it to be free.
So: one person, acting on their own, fired one shot. The federal government then used it to imprison people in the vicinity, and some who weren't even there at all.
Song received a sentence of 100 years. Mari's 70-year sentence came down after she was convicted of rioting, material support for terrorism, conspiracy to use and carry an explosive, use and carry of an explosive, and conspiracy to conceal documents for allegedly asking Des to move the box of political literature. Five others who were present received 50 years each for rioting, material support for terrorism, conspiracy to use and carry an explosive, and use and carry of an explosive (which, to be clear, were consumer fireworks, the kind you can buy on the side of the road in most states). For comparison: the longest sentence handed to any January 6 participant before the pardons was 22 years, given to the former leader of the Proud Boys a paramilitary organization that stormed the United States Capitol to stop the certification of a presidential election.
I think it's important to name two things here: first, how exceptionally long these sentences are, even on a US-adjusted scale; and second, how this criminalization of protest is not unexpected, it’s just the next mutation of the sprawling policing and incarceration apparatus we've built over decades.
It's not even a unique strategy. In November 1919, in what became known as the Palmer Raids, the Department of Justice arrested more than 4,000 people across the country. Much like the Prairieland defendants, the vast majority were guilty of nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time—guilty, in the eyes of the government, of possessing radical politics: being Russian, simply being present when others were arrested, attending meetings, holding the wrong beliefs. The government eventually deported 800 of them.
The legal tools on display today are the same ones, just tweaked a bit over the ensuing century. The felony murder doctrine has sent thousands of people to prison for life for deaths they didn't cause. (A notable example that garnered a lot of attention: Ryan Holle lent his car to a friend in Florida, went to sleep, and was convicted of first degree murder when his friend committed a robbery and killed someone). Conspiracy law has been used to prosecute the periphery of alleged drug networks, “gang” affiliations, and social movements for generations. Mandatory minimums have produced sentences that are wildly disproportionate to the underlying conduct for as long as they have existed. The terrorism enhancement applied to the Prairieland defendants—because they had fireworks—has been used to inflate sentences and justify mass surveillance against Muslim communities, environmental activists, and animal rights protesters for decades.
The brutality of these sentences is not particularly shocking to the communities that have been living with police violence and mass incarceration for generations. It is a confirmation of what they already knew—that this is a country willing to sentence an aspiring doula and mother of a 13-year-old to 70 years in a cage for fleeing a righteous protest, while pardoning everyone who stormed the Capitol.
The Prairieland prosecution was underwritten by National Security Presidential Memorandum-7 (NSPM-7), the presidential memo issued in September 2025. President Donald Trump also cited the Prairieland case in an update to his memo designating “antifa”—which literally just means anti-fascist—as a terrorist organization. His memo defines the common threads of left wing terrorism, among other things, as anti-capitalism and opposition to immigration enforcement. It’s being used across the country: in Minneapolis, 15 organizers were indicted in June under NSPM-7 for “overt acts” which included sharing flyers. In Atlanta, two Stop Cop City protesters were federally indicted two weeks ago for conduct from 2022—four years ago!—explicitly as part of the NSPM-7 initiative. In Michigan, pro-Palestine student protesters face federal charges for conduct from 2023. People who carry zines, use Signal, defend land and animals, wear black, or show up outside detention centers are now, under NSPM-7, potential domestic terrorists.
Prairieland was a detention center—our country’s modern answer to a concentration camp—before it was a crime scene.
I watched the Stop Cop City movement—and the state’s violent response to the community’s dissent—unfold in Atlanta. In November 2023, I sat in a courtroom as 57 people churned through arraignment proceedings on a sweeping racketeering case; defendants held neon green numbers and were split into groups of five because the courtroom wasn't big enough to hold them all at once. The rambling, 110-page indictment had charged protesters with criminal conspiracy for things like transferring less than $20 in reimbursement for harm reduction supplies, refusing police commands to exit a tree house, and signing an arrest form with the acronym "ACAB." These, the state alleged, were overt acts in furtherance of a terrorist enterprise. That RICO case eventually collapsed.
Many of the new NSPM-7 cases are not over, so they too may eventually collapse. The Prairieland defendants have pending motions for acquittal and new trial. The Brennan Center has found NSPM-7 to be wholly unmoored, legally. But "eventually" is measured in years of people's lives spent in federal cages.
What happened in Fort Worth last week is a message. The federal government is betting that sentences of 30, 50, 70, 100 years will make the cost of showing up too high. But the people who show up outside detention centers, who defend forests and animals, who organize bail funds and drive people to demonstrations, are not doing it because they expect it to be free. They are doing it because the alternative—a world in which Prairieland and everything it represents goes unchallenged—is unbearable. NSPM-7 is the architecture of a system designed to make dissent unthinkable, but it won’t work. What it will do is hurt people, and the question every organizer now has to answer is: How do we build a movement sturdy enough to absorb that hurt and keep going?
As Marlon Kautz, an Atlanta Solidarity Fund organizer and Stop Cop City RICO defendant, has said: "A plan to avoid repression is a plan to lose." The only meaningful response is to build protest movement infrastructure that can withstand it—through legal defense funds, rapid response networks, the refusal to throw anyone under the bus, the refusal to cooperate with the government, and the sustained work of dismantling the infrastructure that made these sentences possible.
You certainly don't end people’s willingness to protest by making those same people angrier. Prairieland was a detention center—our country’s modern answer to a concentration camp—before it was a crime scene. That's why people were there, and that’s why they'll be back.
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Immigration Detention Centers Are Political Prisons
As immigrants are being targeted, cross-movement solidarity is essential in the fight to free all political prisoners.
Feb 24, 2026
Incarceration has been used as a core tactic of the United States in upholding racial capitalism and imperialisms through repression, extraction, and violent control. Growing to more than 65,000 people at the start of 2026, more people than ever are being held in immigration detention centers, with 2025 setting a 20-year record for deaths while detained.
The arrest and detention of dissenting people due to political motivations—or, the making of political prisoners—has required alleged charges, manufactured evidence, and the expansion of detention infrastructure. With the creation and rapid expansion of immigration enforcement agencies, the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) is creating another mass category of political prisoners.
Incarceration of Immigrant Protesters As Political Repression
The criminalization of protest and dissent has expanded in mission and in agency, as dissenters without citizenship have been targeted, investigated, and detained.
In a letter sent from inside an Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) detention center in 2025, Palestinian activist Mahmoud Khalil declared, “I am a political prisoner,” as he explained the nature of his warrantless arrest by DHS officers after having been the target of an FBI investigation. Khalil stated, “Justice escapes the contours of this nation’s immigration facilities.”
Movements to end mass incarceration, immigrant justice movements, labor movements, environmental justice movements, and all others need to be interconnected in the fight to free all political prisoners.
Leqaa Kordia, a Palestinian with a pending asylum application in the US, was arrested after attending a protest, her charges were dropped, and she was later placed into custody at an ICE detention facility where she has been held despite a judge's orders for her release. Kordia’s family has shared the conditions she has faced, including being chained while hospitalized and barred from access to her attorneys and family.
A federal judge in Massachusetts ruled that people without citizenship have the same free speech rights as citizens, declaring immigration detention for protest and ideological deportation unconstitutional. Yet, the practice of kidnapping and detaining protesters without citizenship continues. Due to the Israeli occupation, seizure of land, and creation of an apartheid state, Palestinian activists like Mahmoud Khalil, Leqaa Kordia, Mohsen Mahdawi, and others are often considered stateless, making them harder to deport and leading to their indefinite apprehension in immigration detention centers as political prisoners.
The Expansion Of Crimmigration Infrastructure
In a similar pattern to the prison boom in 1980s California, ICE is rapidly expanding its detention infrastructure. Across the country federal funds are being used to purchase warehouses to convert into detention centers and lease offices to conduct operations in efforts to establish mass permanent presence of ICE around every corner. Abroad, the US is invested in political detention at facilities such as the camps in Guantánamo Bay in Cuba and Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo (CECOT) in El Salvador.
Alongside political repression, many of these infrastructure-strengthening actions, such as building and staffing for-profit schools in detention facilities and purchasing surveillance technologies, are increasing profits in the billions for developers, tech giants, and stock holders.
Federal funding of these actions by the billions fuels repression. The backing from elected officials, from local jurisdictions to Congress, supplies the infrastructure needed to build a mass system of political prisoners and violent socialeconomic control.
The Making Of Mass Political Prisoners
Prisons are a booming business that require a continued supply of people to ensure continued profit. From what Ruth Wilson Gilmore calls “organized abandonment,” people have been politicized by the repression they experience. The survival behaviors necessary to navigate life in this repression have been criminalized to keep facilities and pockets full.
Because of the nature of detention under racial capitalism, all imprisonment has been considered political, making all who are detained—whether that be in jails, prisons, immigration facilities, involuntary mental health facilities, and other sites of hold—political prisoners. The expansion, then, does not require formal conviction for the state to justify detention indefinitely.
Just like borders, immigration enforcement and detention creates political prisoners. For immigrants in the US, living within its borders is a political act, and continuing to live is a form of resistance. Once detained, immigrants are marked for life as a threat. A child born in an immigration detention facility is born a political prisoner.
These processes make political prisoners common, legitimizing their treatment and making it more difficult to unbuild the systems that keep them.
A Collective Responsibility To Resist
Political prisoners of movement spaces, such as Assata Shakur, Leonard Peltier, and Xinachtli (Alvaro Luna Hernandez), did not allow their detention to stop their resistance efforts. Many have written letters while incarcerated, providing critical texts revealing the use of detention as a method of political repression while exposing their inhumane living conditions. Others have organized from the inside, building power among incarcerated workers and connections to movements on the outside. And, like those held in immigration detention, some have focused on survival as their act of resistance.
On the outside, organizations such as the National Political Prisoner Coalition, Critical Resistance, the National Alliance Against Racist and Political Repression, and Close Guantánamo and the Center for Victims of Torture, have centered their actions around campaigns to free political prisoners. With the expansion of political prisonership under immigration repression, cross-movement solidarity is needed to work in coordination to interrupt and end all carceral tactics used for repression. Movements to end mass incarceration, immigrant justice movements, labor movements, environmental justice movements, and all others need to be interconnected in the fight to free all political prisoners.
Our survival depends on each other.
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The Venezuela Escalation Ignores a Long History of US Hypocrisy on Drugs
For decades, the most powerful state actors facilitating and protecting narcotics trafficking have not been Washington’s adversaries but Washington itself.
Dec 30, 2025
Every accusation is a confession. This is clearly true of the Trump administration’s insistence that Venezuela operates as a “narco-state,” exporting terrorism to the US via fentanyl, now labeled as a “weapon of mass destruction.” The charge is not only false, given that virtually no fentanyl enters the country from Venezuela, but transparently political and pretextual.
This hypocrisy was made unmistakable with President Donald Trump’s recent pardon of former Honduran President Juan Orlando Hernández, who was convicted in 2024 in a US federal court on drug trafficking charges. Hernández presided over a regime long treated as a strategic ally within Washington’s regional security architecture, a reminder that the label of “narco-state” is applied not according to fact but according to the shifting imperatives of US imperial power.
This accusation collapses further when placed in broader historical context. For decades, the most powerful state actors facilitating and protecting narcotics trafficking have not been Washington’s adversaries but Washington itself. Throughout the Cold War and the so-called War on Drugs, the United States, above all through the CIA, repeatedly subordinated drug enforcement to geopolitical priorities, enabling narco-networks so long as they advanced perceived US interests.
These dynamics became especially pronounced in the 1980s, with disastrous consequences both at home and abroad. The decade marked an intensification of the Cold War under Ronald Reagan. His administration insisted that communist “advances” could not only be contained but rolled back. Upon taking office, Reagan launched his promised global offensive, intervening wherever alleged Soviet influence appeared. Turning a blind eye to drug trafficking became a central feature of this crusade, as anti-communism consistently took precedence over anti-narcotics efforts.
Carter and the Crisis of Confidence
Reagan’s rise followed a brief but meaningful thaw. In the wake of Watergate and the Vietnam War, Americans’ faith in political institutions had been profoundly shaken. Years of economic stagnation, inflation, and the reverberations of the 1973 OPEC oil embargo convinced many that the postwar promise of endless upward mobility, the ideological core of the American dream, was collapsing.
It also became impossible to ignore that the US was not only failing to deliver on its economic promise but had also long abandoned the democratic values it claimed to champion. In 1975, the Church Committee laid bare what much of the Global South had known for decades: The United States had been operating as a global anti-democratic force, orchestrating coups and assassinations, sabotaging leftist movements (at home and abroad), and imposing political outcomes that served the interests of American capital rather than the aspirations of people around the world.
Imperial powers had long leveraged drugs to consolidate geopolitical control, from alcohol’s role in Indigenous dispossession to Britain’s forced export of opium into China.
Then, in 1977, came Jimmy Carter. Carter promised a new foreign policy rooted not in reflexive anti-communism but a commitment to human rights. In doing so, he broke, at least in his rhetoric, with decades of bipartisan Cold War orthodoxy. For the first time, a president openly challenged the axiomatic belief that every leftist movement was a Kremlin proxy that demanded immediate US intervention.
As Carter put it, “We are now free of that inordinate fear of communism which once led us to embrace any dictator who joined us in that fear,” acknowledging that “for too many years, we’ve been willing to adopt the flawed and erroneous principles and tactics of our adversaries, sometimes abandoning our own values for theirs.” Washington, he admitted, had “fought fire with fire, never thinking that fire is better quenched with water,” a strategy that had ultimately backfired.
Carter would also come to critique not only the misguided zealotry of US foreign policy but, to an extent, capitalism itself. As he turned toward the root causes of the nation’s intersecting crises, he warned that “too many of us now tend to worship self-indulgence and consumption,” and that “human identity is no longer defined by what one does, but by what one owns.” Conservatives responded with derision, quickly dubbing it the “malaise speech,” a framing that captured many Americans’ refusal to confront the deeper structural problems Carter had identified.
The Reagan Rollback
Reagan ran on this response. He rejected everything Carter had come to represent. Carter, for his part, presided over a series of perceived foreign policy blunders, not all of them self-inflicted, including the Sandinista Revolution in Nicaragua, the Iran Hostage Crisis, and the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, and his actual record was far less radical than his rhetoric suggested. But Reagan seized the moment, casting Carter as weak, naïve, and insufficiently committed to American power and the American way of life, and he won in a landslide.
When Reagan assumed office in 1981, he claimed a mandate to pursue his promised program of unfettered capitalism at home and militant anti-communism abroad, raising the military budget to what were then unprecedented levels. Yet even with this political momentum, he faced constraints. Among them was a public skepticism toward foreign intervention, labeled “Vietnam syndrome,” which posed a direct challenge to his effort to reassert American military primacy on the global stage.
Reagan, however, was not inclined to let public sentiment, democratic constraints, or questions of legality impede his objectives. This saw its most notorious expression in the Iran-Contra Affair, in which administration officials sold weapons to Iran, then in a war of attrition with Saddam’s Iraq, whom the US was backing, in exchange for assistance pressuring Hezbollah to release American hostages in Lebanon, while simultaneously generating funds to support the Contras in Nicaragua. Both were illegal: Congress barred aid to the Contras with the 1982 Boland Amendment, and arms sales to Iran violated US law once it was designated a state sponsor of terrorism in 1984.
Drug Traffickers and “Freedom Fighters”
Another method in which Reagan sought to bypass political constraints on his policies was through the funding of “freedom fighters” in covert proxy wars, an expensive endeavor financed not only by taxpayer dollars but also by enabling allies to engage in drug trafficking. The tactic was hardly new. Imperial powers had long leveraged drugs to consolidate geopolitical control, from alcohol’s role in Indigenous dispossession to Britain’s forced export of opium into China.
Nor was this unprecedented for the United States. During the American war in Vietnam, US intelligence enabled local traffickers to fold an existing regional drug trade in support of their counterinsurgency effort. As historian Alfred McCoy has demonstrated, this helped transform the Golden Triangle into the world’s largest opium-producing region. Estimates during the conflict suggested that up to 25% of U.S. troops stationed in Southeast Asia used heroin in some units, and thousands returned home with addictions seeded with the complicity of Washington.
The “war on drugs” has never been a genuine campaign to curb the sale or use of narcotics or to protect Americans. Rather, it has functioned as a mechanism for advancing American power.
Under Reagan, such complicity only grew. As the administration aggressively expanded punitive anti-drug policing at home under the banner of the “War on Drugs,” it tolerated and indirectly facilitated the cultivation and transport of narcotics when doing so served Cold War priorities. This dynamic was most visible in two of the bloodiest proxy wars of the Reagan era: the Soviet-Afghan War and the Contra War in Nicaragua.
After the 1979 Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, the United States funneled billions of dollars to the mujahideen in an attempt to mire the Soviets in a Vietnam-like quagmire, ultimately producing the most expensive covert operation in US history. It was clear at the time that this policy risked significant “blowback,” although the result was much worse than imagined, but the chance to bleed the Soviets was not one Reagan was willing to forgo.
The extent of US support, indispensable to sustaining the anti-Soviet insurgency, led political scientist Mahmood Mamdani to refer to the insurgency as an “American Jihad.” But the flow of money and arms was not enough on its own, and drug trafficking helped to supplement the effort. Before the war, heroin production in Afghanistan was negligible. By 1989, Afghan-Pakistan supply routes dominated global markets, destabilizing the country and region and creating the conditions for a catastrophic CIA and drug-money enabled, warlord-led civil war that ultimately led to the Taliban’s consolidation of power in 1996.
This heroin not only fueled death and destruction in Afghanistan, where the American-Afghan victory was paid for with the lives of millions of Afghan civilians, but it also boomeranged back. As Mamdani documents, during the Soviet-Afghan jihad, this heroin came to account for some 60% of the heroin circulating on US streets. The consequences were immediate and severe. As a White House drug-policy adviser acknowledged at the time, New York City witnessed a 77% increase in drug-related deaths.
In Central America, a parallel “logic” emerged. The Contras needed cash, and cocaine networks supplied it. The Kerry Committee, convened in the wake of Iran-Contra, and tasked with investigating these links, concluded in 1989 that there was substantial evidence the Contras engaged in drug smuggling and that US officials allowed them to operate without interference.
This support for traffickers unfolded at the very moment the US was intensifying its domestic crackdown on cocaine. During this period, lawmakers and prosecutors entrenched and weaponized legal asymmetries between crack and powder cocaine, driving the militarization of policing and expanding infrastructure of mass incarceration, a campaign that disproportionately targeted and destabilized Black communities across the country.
When Gary Webb, an investigative journalist for the San Jose Mercury News, revealed in 1996 an even more direct connection between CIA awareness of Contra-linked cocaine profits entering the United States and the simultaneous domestic “War on Drugs,” the backlash was swift. Government officials and major media outlets launched a concerted campaign to discredit him, all but ending his career. Nonetheless, many of his findings would soon be corroborated, at least in part, by internal investigations conducted by the CIA and Department of Justice.
The Failures of the “War on Drugs”
Trump’s latest invocation of drugs as a pretext for war with Venezuela is unconvincing on its face. But situated within the long historical record of US complicity in, or calculated indifference to, drug trafficking when it served strategic ends, even when those decisions inflicted direct harm on Americans, it becomes little more than farce. For decades, Washington has treated narcotics not as a public health challenge but as a political instrument, inflating them into an existential national security threat when expedient and minimizing them when inconvenient.
The “war on drugs” has never been a genuine campaign to curb the sale or use of narcotics or to protect Americans. Rather, it has functioned as a mechanism for advancing American power. This history makes clear that the US cannot credibly condemn other nations for their entanglements in the drug trade until it reckons with its own record as a facilitator of state-sponsored terrorism and narco-trafficking.
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Why Abolition Matters in This Moment
The crises of our generation demand a holistic approach that acknowledges the interconnectedness of systems of oppression and the need for a collective movement that dismantles state violence at all levels.
Oct 22, 2025
It feels like the world is spinning out of control as militarized violence, climate chaos, economic inequality, and authoritarianism escalate. At the same time, I've been inspired by an expanding sense of global solidarity, epitomized by the thousands who traveled to Egypt for the March to Gaza this past June and the millions who watched in real time as the Global Sumud Flotilla attempted to break Israel's siege this month. Amid escalating violence, the repression of civil rights, and the incarceration of peaceful protesters worldwide, there is a growing people's movement for transformative action that connects the dots between militarism, corporate capitalism, and the climate crisis.
In this context, I've been planning the logistics for World BEYOND War’s annual global #NoWar2025 Conference on October 24-26 with the feeling that this year's theme of abolition is especially timely. The crises of our generation demand a holistic approach that acknowledges the interconnectedness of systems of oppression and the need for a collective abolition movement that dismantles state violence at all levels. Abolition invites us to reimagine safety and security beyond punishment, control, and state violence.
Abolition is a project of liberation, a collection of goals, ideas, practices, strategies, campaigns, and movements aimed at abolishing institutions and forces of violence—from police and prisons to war and colonization. It’s an act of refusal, a rejection of the violent status quo. And a commitment to build something much better, together.
Admittedly, abolition can be a daunting concept. And in the face of encroaching state violence and authoritarianism, there can be an impulse to play it safe—to appease, or to attempt to reform. But the systemic issues we face necessitate a rethinking of the system itself, a paradigmatic shift away from the corporate capitalistic framework that fuels the inequities of our time. This starts first with daring to imagine what an abolitionist future could look like. The work of World BEYOND War challenges us to make that mental leap. Otherwise, we can get stuck in cycles of piecemeal reforms that never address root causes and upend the institutions that perpetuate violence.
The #NoWar2025 Virtual Conference on October 24-26 will be a key moment to come together across borders and movements to explore abolition as a visionary and necessary approach to dismantling systems of violence.
Importantly, dismantling violent and oppressive systems does not mean that society is left in a vacuum without support. On the contrary, abolition necessitates creating community-led nonviolent systems that center common security, meaning, “No one is safe until all are safe.” These models already exist and can be learned from and replicated.
Costa Rica abolished its military. South Africa ended apartheid (but work continues for reconciliation and reparations). Many Indigenous peoples around the world have long employed ancestral and liberatory practices beyond prisons, policing, and punishment while other communities are trying new models of violence interruption programs, nonviolent deescalation, community self-policing, court diversion, restorative and transformative justice, and much more right now.
Beyond a failure of imagination, a key impediment to abolition is the misuse of billions of our tax dollars. When we call for defunding the police and slashing the military budget, those funds must be adequately redirected toward meeting people’s basic needs and establishing robust systems for common security. To discount frameworks like unarmed civilian defense, violence interruption programs, and restorative justice processes as being unfeasible at scale overlooks the fact that most of these programs are grassroots driven with little funding. Imagine what we could achieve with the $1 trillion per year currently spent on the US military alone.
The #NoWar2025 Virtual Conference on October 24-26 will be a key moment to come together across borders and movements to explore abolition as a visionary and necessary approach to dismantling systems of violence, including police, prisons, militaries, and borders, while cultivating communities rooted in justice, care, and collective well-being. Join us.
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Stop Gov. Healey’s $360 Million Prison Plan
Local organizations are imploring the Massachusetts governor to “truly invest in building up people, not prisons, and improve safety and well-being for all of us.”
Aug 07, 2025
On the last day of June, the Healey-Driscoll administration shocked community leaders, stakeholders, and residents across the Commonwealth of Massachusetts with their announcement of their $360 million proposal to build upon the MCI-Framingham prison site. This came as a surprise to many politicians and constituents alike, as the administration had been nearly radio silent about any developments concerning the MCI-Framingham project since November 2024.
The Healey-Driscoll administration has failed to be transparent with Massachusetts constituents regarding this plan. Information requests made by constituents and organizations about the status of this plan were ignored. This is especially concerning given the fact that many of these inquirers have been deeply involved in the Free Her Campaign—a movement and policy platform focused on criminal justice reform in the state.
Organizations such as Families for Justice as Healing and the National Council for Incarcerated and Formerly Incarcerated Women and Girls (the National Council) have been leaders of this campaign since its inception and argue that this proposal only takes away from legitimate efforts that prevent incarceration. In their statement addressing the governor’s proposal, the organizations implored the Gov. Maura Healey to “truly invest in building up people, not prisons, and improve safety and well-being for all of us.”
Talks of designing a new women’s prison at the MCI-Framingham site have been going on since 2019, with the original price tag being around $50 million dollars. However, with a new cost that is nearly eight times more expensive than before, communities and organizations around the state are rallying together to fight against this proposal.
As opponents of warfare and violence, we must understand how the very institutions that perpetuate war abroad on behalf of the United States also wage war against her citizens at home.
Although there has been significant pushback against new prisons in the state, the Healey-Driscoll administration has spun the construction of a renovated MCI-Framingham site as innovative given that it will be “trauma-informed” and able to provide mental health resources to its inhabitants. Opponents of prison expansion including currently and formerly incarcerated individuals argue that there is no such thing as “trauma-informed” prisons, and they only further the cycle of trauma and abuse that led a majority of the women in MCI-Framingham to incarceration in the first place. They argue that what many of the women need is clemency, and to be brought home to gain access to the medical and mental health resources that they need to survive.
The architect of the proposal is HDR—an architecture and engineering consultancy firm that has helped build over 275 prisons and jails in the U.S. and was the architect in designing previous Massachusetts projects such as the Middleton House of Correction.
HDR is a large military defense contractor for the U.S., and has received over $2.02 billion to date for its special services in military infrastructure design. In exchange for a Department of Defense contract worth over $360,000, HDR helped design a shooting range under the project name “NEGBA FIRING RANGE.” Given the title, this shooting range was either in or near Israel’s Negba settlement. Located in the Naqab desert, the Negba settlement is only one piece in Israel’s greater effort to expand military infrastructure in the very desert which many Palestinian Bedouins call home. These communities suffer the environmental and material consequences for Israel’s militarization of the region.
As opponents of warfare and violence, we must understand how the very institutions that perpetuate war abroad on behalf of the United States also wage war against her citizens at home. Although seemingly separate, U.S. foreign policy and the internal carceral system are inherently tied together by consulting firms such as HDR, which carry out the will of the state at the expense of U.S. citizens in both civil and economic terms.
With this understanding, women affected by the proliferation of these policies continue to push back. On May 13, incarcerated women from MCI-Framingham delivered powerful testimony in favor of The Jail and Prison Construction Moratorium, an act that imposes a five-year pause on any new prison or jail construction in the Commonwealth. This is just one of four bills currently in the state legislature supported by Massachusetts Peace Action and the Free Her Campaign alike.
In the upcoming weeks and months, the National Council and Families for Justice As Healing will be holding several events such as phone banking sessions and canvassing events to further inform Massachusetts residents of this proposal, and demonstrate public support against it.
To get involved in the campaign and learn more about the supported bills, visit the National Council’s website for more information around actions you can take to stop Healey’s plan.
This piece was originally published on the Massachusetts Peace Action website.
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This Juneteenth, America Must Choose to Live Up to Its Founding Documents
When we limit conversations about our complex past, we not only lose historical accuracy but also our capacity for growth and the honest reckoning that could finally help us fulfill our founding promises.
Jun 19, 2025
In 1796, 22-year-old Ona Marie Judge became one of America's most wanted fugitives. Born into slavery and held by President George Washington, Judge escaped from Philadelphia and fled north to New Hampshire. Washington immediately began hunting her, placing newspaper advertisements offering rewards for her return. For over 50 years, she would live as a fugitive, knowing that bounty hunters could appear at any moment to drag her back into bondage. Her story of survival reveals tensions that we're still grappling with today.
Judge's escape revealed the America we rarely acknowledge in our founding stories. As efforts to silence discussions of race and history spread nationwide—from federal agencies barring recognition of Black History Month to more than 44 states, including my home state of New Hampshire, limiting how schools can discuss racism—her story demands our attention.
Judge's escape laid bare the America we rarely acknowledge in our founding mythology.
The paradoxes Judge witnessed still define us. Washington was not the infallible moral leader of our imagination, but a flesh-and-blood man who owned other human beings and spent years trying to recapture the woman who dared seek freedom. New Hampshire was not removed from slavery's horrors—Portsmouth had been a major slave trading port since the 1600s.
Judge's escape laid bare the America we rarely acknowledge in our founding mythology. These tensions were the defining forces that shaped America's first century and continue to do so today. Judge's story illuminates how deeply slavery was woven into the fabric of the entire nation, connecting Black and white lives in ways our history books have long worked to hide. Understanding her experience becomes essential to understanding ourselves, especially as movements to obscure these complexities grow stronger.
The Pattern of Progress and Backlash
This current backlash against Black history education shouldn't surprise us—it follows a persistent American pattern. Every period of racial progress has triggered fierce resistance designed to roll back gains and rewrite the past. After Reconstruction brought Black political participation and civil rights, the country allowed Jim Crow laws to flourish and KKK terror to reign while Confederate monuments were erected across the South to rewrite the Civil War as a noble struggle rather than a fight to preserve slavery. The rise of the war on drugs and mass incarceration of Black Americans followed the 1960s civil rights laws. The election of the first Black president, Barack Obama, triggered the Tea Party movement and birtherism campaigns designed to delegitimize his presidency.
Today's attacks on how we discuss race and history represent the latest iteration of this cycle. When we limit conversations about our complex past, we not only lose historical accuracy but also our capacity for growth and the honest reckoning that could finally help us fulfill our founding promises.
Why Local Stories Matter
This ongoing struggle is why the work happening in New Hampshire—a politically purple state where Black residents make up just 2% of the population—offers constructive lessons for the rest of the nation. If honest conversations about Black history can flourish here, they can do so anywhere; however, success requires understanding what we like to use as a guideline: the rule of thirds. One third will support, one third will be persuaded, and one third will oppose. The progress is determined by the persuadable middle. We've seen how we can make real change by reaching that crucial middle group in New Hampshire.
Look no further than our annual July 4 readings of Frederick Douglass' "What to the Slave Is Your Fouth of July" speech, which has grown from one participating town to 22, with communities reading simultaneously across the state. From synagogues to rural town halls, people gather simply to hear Douglass' words—no discussion required, no positions demanded. This creates space for reflection and connection without the political battles that often shut down conversation before it begins.
Judge's legacy calls us to specific action: Resist erasure wherever we encounter it—in our children's schools, local libraries, state legislatures, and national debates.
Building unexpected alliances has proven equally powerful. Working with the Daughters of the American Revolution to install historical markers honoring Black Revolutionary War heroes demonstrates that historical truth enriches rather than threatens our understanding of patriotism. We've now placed nearly 40 markers throughout the state, each one making visible stories that were always there but rarely acknowledged.
This success stems from focusing on education and storytelling rather than confrontation, allowing facts and local narratives to speak for themselves. New Hampshire residents hunger for authentic stories about their own communities, even when those stories complicate their narratives about the past.
From resistance to Reckoning
The power of personal narrative will be on full display this Juneteenth, as Portsmouth hosts an unprecedented gathering where direct descendants of America's founding fathers and the people they enslaved come together to explore our intertwined histories. Shannon LaNier, the ninth-generation descendant of Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings, will join Laurel Guild Yancey, descendant of Portsmouth's Prince Whipple, a Black man who fought in the Revolutionary War while enslaved by Declaration of Independence signer William Whipple. In a profound twist of history, the Whipple family would later become the very people who provided sanctuary to Ona Judge when she sought refuge in Portsmouth—the same family line that had owned Prince Whipple would become her protectors, demonstrating how the arc of justice sometimes bends through the most unexpected transformations.
When descendants sit together sharing these narratives, they reveal how the stories of America's founding fathers and the people they enslaved have been inseparably linked across generations. These family histories, passed down through centuries, offer living proof that our nation's racial past isn't separate and distinct, but intimately woven together from the very beginning. Their gathering in Judge's adopted hometown creates a bridge across time, connecting her story of resistance to our current moment of choice.
After all, her choice to flee slavery, knowing the dangers ahead, required extraordinary courage. She lived in poverty, often depending on charity, and had outlived her three children and husband when she died in 1848. Yet she chose uncertainty over oppression, a fugitive's life over bondage, never abandoning her claim to freedom despite facing consequences far more severe than anything we encounter today.
The free Black families in Portsmouth who risked everything to shelter her further demonstrate that resistance has always been collective work, requiring people to see their own freedom as incomplete while others remained in chains. Their courage offers a template for our current moment, when we need that same spirit of collective action.
Judge's legacy calls us to specific action: Resist erasure wherever we encounter it—in our children's schools, local libraries, state legislatures, and national debates. Speak up when school boards attempt to ban books that tell the full story of American history. Engage with the persuadable middle in our communities, attend town halls, and vote for leaders who understand that historical truth strengthens, rather than weakens, our democracy. Most importantly, discover the complete stories of all who have lived in your community—Indigenous peoples, Black families, immigrants, and others whose experiences have been overlooked—and support those working to bring these histories to light.
This Juneteenth, as conversations unfold in the place where Judge found refuge, her story asks us to choose: Will we allow fear to silence these essential truths, or will we find the courage to engage in the honest reckoning needed to fulfill the promises of equality our founding documents made to all Americans?
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Abrego García’s Detention Opened a Window Into El Salvador’s Obscure Prison System
The basic rights Abrego has been denied in El Salvador—including to communicate with his family—are a stark reminder of the plight of thousands of Salvadorans.
May 18, 2025
After mounting pressure, on April 17 U.S. Democratic Sen. Chris Van Hollen met with Kilmar Abrego García, 29, a Maryland man wrongfully deported to El Salvador on March 15 by the Trump administration. Abrego García was granted a rare opportunity to speak with someone outside of prison—in this case, a U.S. senator.
But Since Salvadoran authorities suspended some due process rights in March 2022, security forces have detained more than 85,000 people—often without warrants, access to legal counsel, or any meaningful opportunity to challenge their detention. My organization has interviewed dozens of people who have gone months or even years without being able to communicate with their loved ones in prison or access information about their whereabouts, the status of legal proceedings, or their well-being.
“Every week I went, and every week I left crying,” the mother of a 24-year-old domestic worker told us, about her visits to government offices to seek information. Her daughter was detained in April 2022, as she slept beside her 4-year-old daughter. Officers entered their home without a warrant, citing “presidential orders.” They took her first to a police station and then to the women’s prison.
When Van Hollen met with Abrego García, he came face-to-face with the harsh reality that tens of thousands of Salvadoran families have endured for months—even years.
She was later charged with “unlawful association,” a vague offense frequently used to hold people detained in El Salvador. When her mother attempted to submit documents to show her daughter was not a gang member, including employment papers, a public defender told her they were “useless.” The public defender did not give her any answers, alleging, as she recalls, that “sharing information with families of detainees is prohibited.”
The mother has been forced to piece together information from multiple sources, including calls from people who said they had been detained with her daughter, and rumors in WhatsApp and Facebook groups created by relatives of people detained. She learned, for example, in September 2023, that her daughter had a hernia, causing her to vomit frequently. Sixteen months later, she learned that her daughter had been hospitalized briefly, for a medical checkup. She does not know what her health status is.
The relatives of a 61-year-old civil engineer, who was detained in June 2022, told us a similar story. He has multiple serious health conditions—including diabetes, glaucoma, neuropathy, hypertension, and other chronic illnesses. Yet his family does not know if he is receiving the medical attention he needs, including daily refrigerated insulin—something detainees in El Salvador rarely obtain.
He was detained at a police unit in San Salvador, then transferred in September 2023 to a prison. Since then, his family has only been able to see him once, very briefly, in June 2024. They saw him then from afar, handcuffed and escorted into a courtroom, where he appeared visibly weakened.
His lawyer has asked repeatedly that he be sent to house arrest to receive adequate medical treatment, to no avail.
This regime of extreme incommunicado detention has also allowed corruption to thrive. As the investigative news outlet El Faro recently exposed, many relatives have paid bribes to be able to exercise a basic right: to communicate with their detained loved ones.
Yet many, often from vulnerable neighborhoods in El Salvador, are unable to pay. Many told us that the most they can do is take a bag with basic items, such as food, medicine, and clothes, to prison. They spend a significant amount of their income and time to do so, often fearing that their relatives will never receive the goods.
Thanks to outside pressure, Abrego García was not only able to speak to a U.S. senator but also to be transferred out of the draconian Center for Confinement of Terrorism (CECOT), where thousands of the detainees are being held.
These positive steps are clearly insufficient: Abrego García should be sent back to the United States. But the basic rights Abrego has been denied in El Salvador—including to communicate with his family—are a stark reminder of the plight of thousands of Salvadorans who have seen their loved ones completely cut off from the outside world for months or even years.
When Van Hollen met with Abrego García, he came face-to-face with the harsh reality that tens of thousands of Salvadoran families have endured for months—even years. A prison system cut off from the rest of the world where the lives of detainees remain in limbo and families are left in anguish, endlessly searching for answers.
“I wish I could be a bird and fly into the prison just to see how my daughter is,” one of their relatives said.
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I Returned Home From Prison With Nothing; Here’s What Helped Me Rebuild
Programs like the Returning Citizens Stimulus don’t just improve lives—they reduce unnecessary incarceration and save public funds.
Apr 23, 2025
In April of 2020, one of us was navigating reentry during a global pandemic, while the other was working to implement the largest-ever cash assistance program specifically for people returning from incarceration. With the publication of groundbreaking research, five years later, we know that cash assistance has a positive impact on public safety. It’s time to scale this proven strategy to California’s recidivism challenges.
Karina:
I grew up in Los Angeles, where 1 in 3 children grow up in poverty. Despite a loving mother, I was placed in the foster care system at an early age—a system known to be a pipeline to incarceration. During my third pregnancy I was incarcerated, and I spent the next three years trying to figure out how I would support my family when I got out. With no savings and limited resources, I had no idea how I would get back on my feet.
Without any support for essentials like food, rent, or even a cellphone, the challenge of rebuilding a life is insurmountable.
The pandemic forced employers to go remote. I didn’t have access to a computer or money to buy one, and I didn’t have a clue on how I would afford housing. My kids have pulmonary issues, and I couldn’t see or live with them without risking exposure.
While incarcerated, I learned about the Returning Citizens Stimulus (RCS), a first-of-its-kind initiative launched by the Center for Employment Opportunities (CEO). RCS offered financial support to people returning from incarceration. I received $2,750 in installments over two months after my release.
RCS cash made all the difference because getting and keeping a job right out of prison was nearly impossible. I applied to a job at a warehouse known for hiring justice-impacted people. I was fired on my day off because of my time in prison. For people like me this experience is commonplace. Without any support for essentials like food, rent, or even a cellphone, the challenge of rebuilding a life is insurmountable.
RCS covered my immediate needs, such as new clothes, transportation, and I could pay off my restitution. It even allowed me to take my kids out for a meal for the first time in three years. Today, I’m a member of CEO’s policy and advocacy team, where I’ve been able to use my story to advocate for direct cash assistance.
Sam:
In April 2020, when many justice-impacted people, like Karina, were locked out of government support, CEO—being one of the largest reentry services providers in the nation—conceived of and implemented RCS. The program delivered $24 million in direct cash payments to over 10,000 people returning from incarceration.
Research nonprofit MDRC’s most recent independent evaluation of the RCS program in Los Angeles and Alameda counties found that RCS reduced parole violations by nearly 15% for up to a year after enrollment with noteworthy statistical significance—meaning we can be almost certain it was the cash assistance that drove the outcomes. Parole is a costly and punitive system that accounts for 27% of all admissions to state and federal prisons and costs the U.S. over $10 billion annually.
Programs like RCS prove that a small investment at a critical time can lead to transformational change—for individuals, for families, and for entire communities.
Programs like RCS don’t just improve lives—they reduce unnecessary incarceration and save public funds. A short-term financial intervention had long-term impacts on reducing both violent and technical parole violations. It’s simple: When people have the resources to succeed, they don’t cycle back into the system.
Prop 36 is primed to roll back California’s progress in reducing its incarcerated population. More people are likely to go to prison, and less money will be directed towards reentry. The need to invest in solutions proven to halt the revolving door of incarceration have never been more necessary. California has already implemented direct cash assistance before and has a whole host of organizations ready to put it in action once again.
The governor and lawmakers must renew funding for Helping Justice-Involved Reenter Employment (HIRE). This program, set to sunset this fiscal year, has already distributed more than $500,000 in needs-based payments to justice-impacted people across the state, pairing cash support with pathways to good jobs.
Programs like RCS prove that a small investment at a critical time can lead to transformational change—for individuals, for families, and for entire communities.
Karina:
RCS offered me agency to determine my own career path. I could provide for my family while also pursuing a fulfilling job. As someone who was able to build a life through RCS, it is my responsibility to push for programs, like HIRE, that will have a lasting and significant impact on the future of my city, my state, and people returning home.
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Fed Workforce Cuts Leave Formerly Incarcerated Individuals Without a Future
When policymakers strip away funding for education and job training, it is not just setting up individuals for failure—it is ensuring a future where entire communities remain trapped in cycles of poverty and incarceration.
Mar 14, 2025
Imagine being sentenced to prison as a juvenile. You enter a world not designed to rehabilitate you, but to warehouse you alongside adults who have long since given up hope. The promise of education and job training is nonexistent, or at best, a fleeting privilege reserved for a select few.
You serve your time, only to return to a society that has already made up its mind about your worth. You are ready to rebuild your life, but the structures necessary to support that transition—education, employment, and rehabilitation programs—are crumbling around you.
With recent cuts to the federal workforce and over $600 million slashed from vital teacher training grants, that already fragile path to redemption is further dismantled. The reality for those reentering society after incarceration is bleak.
The stakes are clear: Either invest in people, ensuring they have the tools needed to succeed post-incarceration, or continue to sabotage their futures before they even have a chance to rebuild.
According to the Bureau of Justice Statistics, in 2021, there were 2,250 juveniles 17 and younger held in adult jails and prisons. That number has been declining as the Prison Policy Initiative states that as of 2019, on any day there were 48,000 youth detained.
There are distinct disparities in detention as the Sentencing Project reports that in 2021, the white placement rate in juvenile facilities was 49 per 100,000 youth. The Black youth placement rate was 228 per 100,000, tribal youth were at a rate of 181 per 100,000, and Latino youth were a rate of 57 per 100,000.
A steady job is the cornerstone of successful reintegration, yet the opportunities available to newly-released youth are scarce. “The latest available data from the National Longitudinal Survey of Youth found that 20% of reentering young people born between 1980 and 1984 were unemployed in the first year following their release” the Center for American Progress found.
“In the 12th full year after release, that number grew to 26%. According to further analysis of these data, young adults with criminal legal histories worked an average of only 35.8 weeks in the first full year after their release,” the survey shows.
Many young people report they are met with application questions that force them to disclose their past, immediately placing them at a disadvantage. For those who manage to find employment, wages are often low, and the stigma of their past follows them like a shadow.
Nonprofit organizations such as The Doe Fund, Homeboy Industries, and Defy Ventures that work tirelessly to provide job training, legal aid, and mentorship are facing funding cuts that threaten their survival. Without these crucial programs, the cycle of recidivism tightens its grip, and the promise of a second chance fades further from reach.
These grants help create educators who specialize in reaching marginalized communities, including those affected by incarceration. Without these resources, the pipeline to education, a key factor in breaking the cycle of incarceration, is severely weakened. If education is the key to opportunity, then these cuts are slamming the door shut on those who need it most.
A recent report on predictions for youth justice funding programs says, “One major hurdle is the inconsistent allocation of funds across different states and communities. Disparities in funding can lead to unequal access to essential services, leaving some youth without the support they need to succeed.”
With federal cuts prompted by an executive order to end all Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion initiatives, youth justice funding may be on the chopping block.
But this issue of resources for youth extends beyond those directly impacted by incarceration. A society that fails to rehabilitate and reintegrate its formerly incarcerated citizens is a society that fosters instability.
Families remain fractured, communities suffer from economic stagnation, and the cost of recidivism far outweighs the investment in successful reintegration. When policymakers strip away funding for education and job training, it is not just setting up individuals for failure—it is ensuring a future where entire communities remain trapped in cycles of poverty and incarceration.
When the pillars necessary for reentry—education, employment, and support—are removed, research shows the fear, anxiety, and hopelessness experienced by those returning home are not just personal struggles; they are systemic failures.
Instead of pulling away crucial funding, policymakers, elected officials, nonprofit funders, philanthropists, advocates, and community leaders must expand access to education and workforce development, particularly for those who have served their time and are ready to contribute to society.
The stakes are clear: Either invest in people, ensuring they have the tools needed to succeed post-incarceration, or continue to sabotage their futures before they even have a chance to rebuild. It’s time to reject policies that leave the most vulnerable behind and instead fight for a future where second chances are more than just empty promises.
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Cop City Is A Disability Issue, and Disabled Organizers Must Fight To Stop It
In a society that prioritizes profits over people, disabled people are frequently marginalized and disposed of. Incarceration and police violence underscore the ways capitalism fails its most vulnerable.
Jan 10, 2025
Snce 2020, plans to build militarized police training facilities, also known as cop cities, have erupted across the country in an effort to maintain the status quo and quell political dissent from abolitionist and progressive organizers. As of July 2024, there are 80 projects either already being built or in the process of negotiating contracts to begin construction. Ten states have plans for multiple police compounds. The creation of these training facilities marks a new chapter of policing in the U.S.
Disability justice and disabled community organizers must be at the forefront of the nationwide movement to stop cop cities because this movement is a disability justice issue.
The movement to #StopCopCity emerged in the wake of nationwide uprisings in response to police killings of Black people, sparking critical conversations around the role of policing, the limits of police reform, community safety, and alternatives to the criminal legal system. Along with other organizations, I organized on the ground in Atlanta, where multiple police agencies used militarized tactics against community members. This occurred even as we mourned the loss of Rayshard Brooks, a member of our community who was killed by the Atlanta Police Department. All of this unfolded as we grappled with the profound impacts of a global pandemic—a mass-disabling event affecting countless lives.
We must listen to and follow the leadership of disabled people, especially those who are formerly or currently incarcerated.
Our collective grief transformed into action, fueling demands to end state-sanctioned violence and redirect investment into our communities. Our displays of solidarity angered and alarmed corporations, as well as local and national political establishments. In collaboration with major media outlets, those in power obscured the focus, reframing the narrative around rising crime rates and once again positioning police as the solution to our social, political, and economic challenges.
As a response to our organizing efforts, the city of Atlanta decided to build a $90 million complex equipped with military-grade facilities and a mock city for urban police training. If completed, this would be the country’s largest police training facility. Other municipalities have followed Atlanta’s misleadership. Cop city proposals have surfaced in Baltimore, Maryland; San Pablo, California; Fitchburg, Massachusetts; and Nashville, Tennessee all in response to demonstrations that took place in 2020. Meanwhile, other facilities have completed construction and are currently in operation like the cop cities in Semmes, Alabama; Fort Lauderdale, Florida; Decatur and Chicago, Illinois; and Madisonville, Kentucky.
In a society that prioritizes profits over people, disabled people are frequently marginalized and disposed of. Incarceration and police violence underscore the ways capitalism fails its most vulnerable. Disabled people are often excluded from discussions about the criminal legal system, resulting in limited and ineffective strategies for addressing the root causes of incarceration (e.g., poverty, racism, and capitalism).
The overrepresentation of people with disabilities in prisons and jails illustrates how victims of capitalism are locked up and harmed. Approximately 66% of incarcerated individuals in the U.S. report having a disability, while half of all people killed by police are disabled, with disabled Black Americans disproportionately affected. Even people without a disability who are locked up develop some sort of disability over the course of their imprisonment because the prison system is disabling.
Each year, an estimated 350 people with mental health diagnoses are killed by law enforcement, and individuals with psychiatric disabilities are 16 times more likely to be killed during police encounters. People like Anthony Hill, Sandra Bland, Eric Garner, Deborah Danner, Alfred Olango, Daniel Prude, Magdiel Sanchez, Freddie Gray, and countless others were all disabled people who were murdered by police.
These risks are even greater for people of color, women, trans folks, and LGBTQIA+ people. An alarming statistic reveals that by age 28, half of all disabled Black Americans have experienced arrest, underscoring the urgent need to address police violence and brutality as an intersectional issue that includes disability justice. These statistics will continue to rise as more Cop Cities are built, which will place BIPOC disabled individuals in closer proximity to police and increase their risk of harm.
The estimated budgets for these police training facilities are staggering; meanwhile police funding already consumes the majority of municipal budgets at the expense of essential social services. As police budgets grow, funding for education, direct services, infrastructure, and healthcare falls, leaving many—especially disabled individuals—without access to the resources they need. For example, Baltimore’s training facility is projected to cost $330 million; San Pablo, California estimates a $44 million facility, and Richmond, Kentucky, has a $28 million project budget.
Investing more in police departments does not create safer communities. Increased training does not address the root causes of violence. The safest communities are those that are well-resourced and have minimal police presence. Our communities deserve better.
The changing landscape of policing in the U.S. is increasingly characterized by international police exchange programs (also known as Deadly Exchange programs), which expose officers to new surveillance methods, military tactics, and forms of political repression from countries with notorious human rights abuses.
The Georgia International Law Enforcement Exchange (GILEE) program in Atlanta sends U.S. officers to train with the Israeli Occupation Forces (IOF), who are responsible for the ongoing genocide of Palestinians. The IOF conducts urban warfare training in a mock city called "Little Gaza," a replica of the Gaza Strip designed to simulate combat scenarios. These practices serve as the blueprint for cop cities across the U.S.
In Baltimore, an Amnesty International report found that the Baltimore Police Department’s participation in deadly exchange programs with Israel contributed to “widespread constitutional violations, discriminatory enforcement, and a culture of retaliation.” However, more police departments are participating in deadly exchange programs. Police officials from states including Florida, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Arizona, Connecticut, Massachusetts, North Carolina, Washington, and D.C. have also trained with Israeli paramilitary forces.
Israel, a nation responsible for the killing and disabling of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians, serves as the model for these military complexes. These tactics will disproportionately impact marginalized communities domestically and amplify surveillance and repression in already vulnerable areas. Disability Justice involves liberating Palestinians from the disabling effects of genocide.
Climate change is deeply connected to the issues of cop cities and disability justice. Projects like those in Atlanta and Nashville involve clearing large areas of urban forest, causing severe environmental harm. For example, Atlanta’s urban forest, which protects communities from flash flooding, has already been compromised, leading to increased flooding across the city. Such environmental degradation worsens health conditions for disabled people, leaving them to face the consequences with little support, as we saw during disasters like Hurricane Helene. This situation will only deteriorate further.
What is to be done?
The phrase “death by a thousand cuts” reminds us that there is no single solution to combat social injustice in this country. Addressing these challenges requires a diversity of tactics and a shared commitment to building a better world. Everyone has a role to play in movement work—whether it’s cooking for comrades, taking meeting notes, providing childcare so others can participate, or conducting research on targets. Every action, big or small, adds up, creating momentum when combined with the efforts of others. There is a place for you; come find it.
We must listen to and follow the leadership of disabled people, especially those who are formerly or currently incarcerated. Those directly impacted by oppressive systems possess invaluable knowledge of how these systems function and must be at the forefront of our movements. Yes, that means building relationships with people currently incarcerated.
It’s equally critical to learn from past campaigns, both their victories and setbacks. For example, the 2017 #NoCopAcademy campaign in Chicago, which sought to stop the construction of a police training facility, illustrates how grassroots organizing can achieve tangible wins. While the facility was ultimately built, organizers succeeded in cutting $21 million from school policing budgets, a significant step toward redistributing resources.
A new world is emerging, whether we are ready for it or not. It’s up to all of us to prepare and take action to shape what comes next. Liberation is possible, but we need you to make it a reality.
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