How celebrity activists have set off a witch hunt against anarchist militants
By Stimulator, Vancouver Media Co-Op
The hardest road trip
When I was twenty-three I was given the task of handing over my father to the authorities. No, I wasn’t collaborating with the police. My father had been found guilty after a long legal battle with the state, and had to turn himself in at a federal penitentiary. The prison was in a remote location in South Carolina which is about a four hour drive from Atlanta, where I was living at the time. Out of all my family members, most of whom reside in the US colony of Puerto Rico, I lived the closest to where my Dad was expected to pay his debt to society, by serving a 63 months sentence. The drive down to the jail must have been one of the worst experiences of my life. I knew that with every mile I drove, I was bringing my father closer to his cage. When we arrived at the gates, my heart started racing and I couldn’t even look at my dad. We parked, entered the building and were both searched. My father was asked to enter into small room. A few moments later a prison guard handed me a shopping bag with his clothes, his watch, wallet and shoes. When my dad stepped out of that room, he was wearing his prison uniform. My dad looked at me and tears filled his eyes. This would be the first time I ever saw my father cry.
Guerrilla News 