“A Tale of an American Political Prisoner”

Part 6.3: The DC Gulag; Washington, DC

–Going Mental–

A True Story; 100% verifiable with Text Messages, Emails, Video/Audio, Court Documents and Testimony.

A few days after my Detention hearing, me and those who’d ridden Con-Air with me, were all told to “pack up” so we could be transferred to another unit. Dumping what few belongings we had into a bed sheet, we dragged our thin bed mats (laughably called mattresses) across the hall. The door clicked with yet another ominous **THUNK** and we stepped into our long term unit: C2B. The J6 Pod. We would be the second wave to arrive. At the time; (actually, around this time 3 years ago, in late February) we were some of the first residents to live here. There were a few that had arrived in the Unit before us. Cleveland (who I will refer to as ‘Cleve’), Ronnie, Sam, Mikey, and (inexplicably) three ChoMo’s – although at the time I presumed they were just three other J6ers. Also Bigo, Dom, Jake, Tim and Ryan had also moved over there, in the week prior. I was initially assigned to Cell 18. There were still so few of us that we only occupied half the bottom tier, with the top tier completely unoccupied (except for the two ChoMo’s).

According to the CO’s, this Unit… C2B… had initially been unoccupied and was used for storage. However, in late December, they were told it needed to be thoroughly cleaned and painted – a mere week prior to January 6th, in preparation for “new arrivals”. We would be its first residents. Many of us speculated that the Feds knew they were planning their False Flag event and needed somewhere to deposit us when the teargas cleared. I still wonder about that. The C2B Unit was considered a PC (Protective Custody) Unit, and were housed under Solitary Confinement conditions; known as doing a 23/1… meaning that we were only allowed out of our cells for 1 hour per day. That includes a shower, phone calls, making food, everything. Because I’m a girl, I wasn’t allowed to shower when the men were out of their cells, so I was forced to shower separately. But most of the time the guards told me to “wait until after the shift change”, and the next guard tells me the same thing. I was rarely given a chance to take a shower and I cleaned myself in my sink a lot. The cells were small. The 9’x9′ entrance is cramped with a seat-less toilet and a sink. Just beyond that was a space the length of a bunk-bed, with a steel desk and stool against the back wall. The walls “wept”; being uninsulated, the freezing winter air outside super-cooled the walls and the warm air within caused condensation to build up on the walls. This ran down the walls, causing ice cold water to soak our sheets and blankets, leaving puddles of water on the floor and a black mold problem that we scrubbed clean with bits of toilet paper. And we’d live in those conditions 23 hours per day.

At this point, we J6ers were alone in the world. There was no such thing as “Support for our Political Prisoners”. No Patriot Mail Project. Nothing. The Conservatives in the Media didn’t have our back either. I remember distinctly Ben Shapiro calling us “…Idiots and Droogs with clubs…” every night. It pissed me off, because people like me were peaceful, but the Conservative Pundits looked down their noses at us, like so much filth. Even @MarkLevin, who I love (and has since filled the void in my heart left by the late Rush Limbaugh), even HE was pretty hostile towards J6 back then. But he was also the one who brought on @JulieKelly from @AmericanGreatness… she was the the first voice to echo through C2B; to advocate for us. To expose what had been done to us. We listened nightly with baited breath for Julie Kelly to return and tell the truth. Morale was soooooo low in the J6 Pod at the time. The incessant Solitary Confinement, the hostile guards beating on our doors and shining flashlights in our faces, the isolation from our loved ones. I was sleeping 3 hours per night (at best). I cried all day, every day. I was hearing accapella singing through the vents, which turns out wasn’t even there. I was legit hearing things. It was a dark time, and would only get darker.

One sleepless night, I saw an Officer in a ski mask that was strolling the Pod. He wasn’t our usual Officer, and it struck me as odd, because THAT Officer had a carabiner full of Zip Tie cuffs on his vest. The next morning, Mikey waved me over to his cell. “Did you see Ryan?” I shook my head, “No, why?” Mikey was practically hysterical. “Go look at him! Go now!” I started to turn and head to his cell, but Mikey made me stop. “They moved him, he’s at the end of the Pod down there”. At the time, ALL those cells were empty; Cells 20, 21, 22, and 23 were all empty. Ryan Samsel was moved to Cell 24. I went down and peeked in. I was SHOCKED at the damage done to his face. At 3am, roughly the same time the guard with the ski mask was doing his “rounds”, they went down to his cell and told him he had a legal visit or Medical or something. He put his hands behind his wrists, and instead of handcuffing him, they zip-tied his wrists. Then they put him on his knees, zip-tied his ankles, and beat his face in. They almost killed him. He lost an eye, and was nearly blinded in the other. His face and head were so swollen and blackened, that he looked like another species. It was insane. But this beginning was just a rude wakeup call for those of us who would remain behind. The abuses and lapses in mental health would only continue and exacerbate. But a new tradition would be born from these ashes.