Love Activists: Prisoners Of Conscience

By Pauline Gillett - 22/9/2015

I am James Jones's mother, one of five Love Activists sentenced to ten weeks prison last week, and writing this article is my way of dealing with my emotions.

When someone dies or perhaps your teenage daughter goes missing overnight, or your eldest daughter has just been mugged in another country, or even when your 20-year-old son is sent to prison, it feels like the world stops. The emotion is so raw, your world freezes.

It's like those freeze frame, filming moments when the person stands still but the camera does a 360 degree, panoramic turn around them. All I can do is look at the carpet tiles below me ( I could replicate the minute pattern if you wish) in the court. In disbelief, I feel like my heart is being held inside a metal clamp that's touching the inner bones of my rib cage, as the realisation that five people who were helping a community to utilise an empty, historic building, have gone to prison, hits home. I struggle to draw breath, feeling the clamp graze and force my lungs to suck in the angry air of shock that is loitering outside the courtrooms on floor 2.

My son was in 'The Bank of Love'. I can say this loud, like I did at the time ,with immense pride. He met his girlfriend there. A sweet girl who was cooking and cleaning there. She arrived after her landlord told her to stop living in his house and remove her things as soon as possible as he wanted to move back in.

Jay was also homeless, as a week earlier his older stepsister and her spaniel needed our couch to sleep on (her flatmate had been in a dispute with their landlord and things were getting violent). He offered his room and said he would stay on my sister's sofa. This selfless act was typical of the young man who spent weekends getting up at 6am to run across farmland, saving foxes and other wildlife from the illegal and legal hunts and culls that go on in our country.

I scrape it all together in order to make my voice heard. People ask if I am ok, I nod like I'm here, but the sounds turned down, there's a numbness that surrounds me. So I go around the corner to ring my rock, my partner, fellow allotment friend, Mike.

I'm just about holding it together when I have to say it, the words. I try to distract by saying we've the dog to look after and walk for a few weeks. and there it is... Jays gone to prison. Only two days ago at my sister-in-law's funeral, my brother discussed how real it is, how much more it hurts, when you have to say it. James is in prison. My throat hurts and my eyes sting, as my breath comes out in sobs. As I try to find the answers to his million questions on the other end of the phone, a police officer behind me repeats what I said about dog walking in a quiet, chuckle-like breath. I find my words then, overcome by anger. I turn around and shout, words include insensitive, disrespectful and downright fucking rude, flow in a garbled yet articulated outrage.

Meanwhile the other supporters and family overhear and join me. I am appalled and again shocked by the flippancy, the lack of humanity that has stood near me, spoke to me and answered my questions for the past two hours.

I stare at the floor again and liken my heart, my emotions, to pomegranate seeds exploded, spread onto those dry grey carpet tiles and I try to sweep them up and then stick them back together wrapping them in duct tape, trying to not let it spill out while I walk with dignity down the stairs.

Trying to be clear and expressive, I need to shout, tell everyone about the £91,500 that's more important than the future of these unemployed youngsters.

Meanwhile I hear of a man who had thousands of child abuse pictures on his computer, who earlier walked free from court. I shout that five people have been imprisoned for trespassing and helping the homeless. I am secure in the fact that the injustice system, as I now will refer to it, has its hands in the pockets of hedge funds and our fraudster mayor. A man who has used almost £90,000 of Liverpool's public money to sue the high school that ironically my son used to attend! An American owner is a little out of pocket now his grade one historic building needs some work. The judge repeated this financial stuff several times. I suppose if you have to convince yourself that money is more important than lives repetitive speech is vital.

I'm in my sons new home. While his dog sleeps on the 'free-cycled' rug, I choose which cup to have my tea in. It's more comforting in a large mug that you can wrap your hands round. I choose the spare bed as my son's bed is too lumpy and soft. I've nagged for years about replacing it but "it's fine, I'm ok" (his philosophy for life summed up in four words). I choose the route that I take Flynn for a walk. I turn around and come back if there's too many distractions, I make him stop and wait if he is pulling too much.

"I choose" are the important words here. I feel grief when I know I have this luxury and yet it is denied to those who chose to help and to stay in the bank. When I wake I look at the sky, wondering if my son and his girlfriend can see it from their cells. Can they see this flat blanket of grey clouds blow away? It leaves an autumnal, pastel blue sky accompanied by the sun low over the rooftops.

I see Chelsea's shorts and cry again at her vulnerability, missing her childlike giggle and her inquisitiveness. The tears roll off my cheeks like the relief of acceptance. My hurt, the anger, shock, sympathy all mixed up with the despair of injustice. He rang at that moment. Positive, strong and informative with an air of upbeat "I'm ok"-ness about his voice. I can hear his smile while he talks and yes, there's a hint of that nervous grin that used to get him into trouble in school.

He tells me that the wardens were trying to wind him up, by saying activists were outside making a noise last night and he chuckles when I tell him they were. His sister amongst others went outside the prison to make a noise and let them know they are supported. Another prison next week.

I have this little glow in my stomach that's growing, smothering the sleeplessness and the 'I feel too sickly to eat' sensations. The Love Activists have shared the prisoners details and are trying to raise funds to cover the fines incurred, but also people who we've never met are sending letters and emails of support. I'm beginning to feel secure, to know and to trust that these Prisoners of Conscience will (in Jay's words) be ok.

For up to date information:

facebook.com/loveactivistsmerseyside
facebook.com/FreetheLovebank5
http://lovebank5.noflag.org.uk/

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Sorry Comments Closed

Comment left by Geoff Edwards on 22nd September, 2015 at 18:18
I have been deeply moved by this article. Mrs Gillett has opened her heart and expressed her inner emotions quite graphically. These five young people, through their actions, have hit a very raw nerve in the government and they are suffering the reaction. We must remove this government. Justice will prevail although the damage is done. Don't let them wind you up James and try not to react. There are a lot of people out here wishing you well. Stay strong!