January 15-21, 2004

city beat

Civil Dis

Scene of the crime: Members of the Civil Disobedience 5 again share their message outside the federal courthouse at Sixth and Market. Photo By: Michael T. Regan

Five who did time for protesting war are free to talk.

by Deborah Bolling

Last Sunday evening, Sylvia Metzler leaned across the long, metal table in the recreation room at Lutheran University Church and described what it was like to be incarcerated in the "secure housing unit," SHU for short, at Philadelphia’s Federal Detention Center.

"It was this huge cement block," she said. "And, boy, was it cold."

Across from her, Marlene Santoyo and Jamie Hanlon-Smith were also recounting their stories of imprisonment to the friends seated around them.

"Hey, you look good, Marlene," someone teased. "Well-rested."

"I am," Santoyo shot back with a smile.

A few dozen folks had gathered at 37th and Chestnut sts. for a monthly meeting sponsored by Brandywine Peace Community, a local activist organization in operation nearly 30 years. Standing at the end of the room, Tom Mullian observed the festive scene, quietly noshing on hearty lentil soup and pita bread. These four, along with co-defendant Lou Ann Merkle, were released from jail on Christmas Eve; each had served seven-day sentences for performing acts of civil disobedience. For all five, one week of their lives in defense of their principles was an investment in integrity. On Sunday night, over a tasty potluck dinner, they were welcomed home by their peers.

On March 20, 2003, the day President George W. Bush declared war in Iraq, not even icy rain could deter hundreds of protesters from converging on the Federal Building at Sixth and Market sts. After demonstrators successfully -- but illegally -- barred entrance to the government installation for nearly an hour, police announced that arrests were forthcoming. Eventually, 107 people were charged with "unreasonable blocking."

In June, the first arrestees were allowed to plead guilty or not to misdemeanor charges. At the end of the hearing, nearly all of the 45 in attendance opted to stand trial and ultimately either face jail time or pay a $250 fine. On Dec. 4, Santoyo, Metzler, Hanlon-Smith, Mullian and Merkle were among the first 11 to stand trial for civil disobedience. Going before U.S. Magistrate Judge Arnold C. Rapoport, in a courtroom just yards from where they had been arrested, all refused to pay the $250 fine. For the Civil Disobedience 5 --or CD5, as they call themselves -- a short stay in jail as a political statement couldn’t be measured in dollars.

"It could've been $2.50 or $2,500, it wouldn't have mattered. I wasn't paying it," says Santoyo, a retired English as a second language teacher from Mt. Airy. "I’m a Quaker and I believe in peace testimony. This is part of my ongoing activism, my way of demonstrating that we have the right -- and the need -- to speak up. This war on terrorism is only wreaking more terrorism -- and it has to end."

Simply defined, civil disobedience is the purposeful violation of a law to communicate the protester’s belief that a law is unconstitutional or morally defective. Nonviolent protest has a long history, having been invoked by Henry David Thoreau when he refused to pay war taxes, Mohandas Gandhi to protect the rights of Indians during South African apartheid, Harriet Tubman for the Underground Railroad and activists throughout America's civil rights and anti-Vietnam War movements. As a means to change, it has clearly shaped the world.

"I was part of a group of six students from Haverford [College] who were also protesting that day," says Hanlon-Smith, a junior who resides at a Quaker retreat center in Wallingford. "The best part for me was to see 50 other students who had come to the Federal Building just to support us. They stood away on the side, but they were there. I watched [them] take on a new level of commitment. It made it all worth it."

At 22, Hanlon-Smith is the youngest of the CD5. Raised in Boston by an Episcopalian priest and a prison social worker, he says he learned about activism through his parents.

"I did two years in AmeriCorps after graduating from high school," he says, referring to the national service program that makes contributions in education, public safety, health and environment. "But service wasn’t enough. There has to be fundamental change for there to be no more wars or poor people on the streets. I believe activism is the best way to bring that change about."

The CD5 were isolated in their cells 23 hours a day and allowed only one hour for recreation. Fortunately, Hanlon-Smith bunked with Mullian, and Metzler with Santoyo. Merkle spent the time alone.

"For me, [going to prison] was a very personal choice," Merkle says. "I’ve been following U.S. overseas policy for years and I’m very aware of the huge numbers of people who have suffered as a result. " I’m ashamed of what this country is doing in my name. The only way I could really say that was to risk a little inconvenience for one week, and give up my comfortable middle-class life. This is my heart’s connection and my solidarity. And I remind myself, I have a lot more work to do."

Merkle, an artist from Plymouth Meeting who taught middle school for 10 years recently decided to devote herself entirely to her art.

"School focuses on specializing in things like technology -- but not on things like multicultural studies," she says. "The result is that people will not ask questions about culture, nor will they ask questions about policy. Everyone knows that Saddam Hussein was pulled out of a spider hole, but how many people know that there were no weapons of mass destruction found in Iraq?"

Eight months after Bush boldly declared an end to major combat in Iraq, and two weeks since his own release from prison, Mullian feels vindicated that no WMD have been found.

"The U.S. was wrong," he says. "There were no WMD, no links to terrorism, no imminent threat to the United States. When I was standing in front of the judge, I said to him, "All the things I said were true and I’m not going to pay $250 to tell the truth.’"

A musician living in Prospect Park, Mullian wrote lyrics about prison life during his stay. Over the weekend, he debuted his new compositions before a peace gathering in Springfield.

"People will question the significance of what I’ve done," he says. "But I tell them, there are no insignificant acts as long as there’s good intent behind them. My true hope is that in 100 years, this particular period of American history will be the aberration -- not the rule."

For Metzler, a nurse and the oldest at 66, going to prison for what she believes in is part of being an American.

"I don’t like being locked up, but sometimes it’s the only step I can take," she says. "It strengthens my own conviction and helps define what I’m willing to suffer for. When I feel like my country is doing something really wrong ... then I have to do civil disobedience and risk spending time in jail. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. But, now after this experience, I have a new cause: prison reform."