Editor’s Note: This article mentions sexual assault, and may be not suitable for all readers. Please read with caution.
By Simi Muhumuza
I remember the days as if they occurred yesterday. They had been imprinted into my brain — tangling my mind and heart whenever they pleased. The days that I had been assaulted were my most remembered during my teenage years. Every day, I would replay the scenes, allow the rage to boil, burn the edges of my insides, and then think of the countless scenarios that included revenge.
Revenge on the men who chose to invade my space, and not listen to the paralyzation of my body in those moments — the way the tension-filled my every bone with the meaning of no.
Before, my revenge, my satisfaction, included only two options: death, or imprisonment. I thought that the only way to achieve peace after an assault was to see my offender brutally harmed, killed or in cages for the rest of their life. As a first generation African-American child, those were the only solution I knew to covet. Those solutions were the only ones that had been mainstreamed into the media, that had been taught at educational institutions, and that had been prioritized within society.
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Initially, when I first heard about prison abolition, I sunk. It felt as though I was being erased, that my voice would never have the chance to etch the fabric of justice. That I would have no way of protecting my siblings, my peers, and loved ones from what could come. That there would be nothing to showcase, to remind others looking to harm not to do so.
However, the issue was not that I was being erased, but that I assumed that justice could only be found by creating more violence, or relying on the state.
The practice of unlearning was the most difficult because it required me to reconstruct my view of forgiveness and healing. Learning about prison abolition moved me to dissect my prior experiences — to see them under a different microscope. I had thought about all the moments that I had been left unsatisfied with “punishment.” It never felt like enough. I wanted the perpetrator to understand harm, to feel it in its depths, and understand its origin.
The more that I developed my understanding of the prison industrial complex, the more it became clear that no amount of understanding, retribution, or justice resulted from it. Breaking the idea that punishment resulted in effective change that benefits society was what brought me to actual comprehension. The system of justice was flawed in ways beyond repair, and as long as it was, so would my progress in healing, so would the progression of so many others.
The solution to repairing the development of my healing was not to believe solely in the idea of restoring the justice system but to support the transformation of justice entirely. Real healing is not the mending of a wound, but the prevention of such a wound in the future — not just for self, but for anyone that has the potential to suffer.
Prison abolition is a social campaign that began to carry weight in the 1980s. People, and organizations, such as Critical Resistance, believe in the principles of restorative and transformative justice— a framework that serves a purpose to remove the bruise of American justice based on punishment rather than real change that serves everyone in the community.
Some of the most prominent voices in prison abolition, such as Ruth Wilson Gilmore, have reiterated the importance of understanding the source of the issue of imprisonment to understand the urgent need for abolition. The foundation of the American prison system is rooted in white supremacy—a construct that thrives off the subjugation of Black people and burrows itself in all aspects of life.
Abolishing prisons means understanding that our succession brings us one step closer to ending the future marginalization of our communities. Restorative and transformative justice work together to not only restore a sense of safety for those affected by the actions of the perpetrator, but also challenges us to thoroughly understand why the actions were committed, even the most grave of them. It requires us to look at crime from a different, more compassionate and radical lens and analyze what societal factors cause individuals to commit specific acts.
Such a task doesn’t bear immediate results, but the evaluation is the first step to transforming the way justice is found. After such a breakdown, people begin to realize that nothing about the prison system, from the courts and lawmakers to the jails and prisons, is about justice but about continuing a cycle of harm for those without the necessary resources to live comfortably. Pushing for abolition means not just cutting the branches, but digging up the root.
As someone that has studied American history, the deconstruction of prisons seems almost impossible. How do you defeat a beast that is rooted deeply in the structure of our society? In 1976, the Prison Research Education Action Project released the “Attribution Model” in their pamphlet. In “Instead of Prisons: A Handbook for Abolitionists” the three standards for abolition are mentioned: moratorium, de-carceration, and ex-carceration. These three ideas can be translated to stop, remove, and divert.
The first concept, moratorium, discusses ceasing the construction of new prisons. In April of 2018, protestors in King’s County, located in Seattle’s Central Area, gathered to stop the development of a new youth jail. The jail would’ve cost more than $200 million. Nothing about the prison would’ve focused on the reason why youth members perform in a way that leads them to jail. The fewer prisons we allow to be built, the more that we can focus on solving the origin.
The second and third concepts, de-carceration and ex-carceration, focus on removing people from prisons as quickly and efficiently as possible and diverting people from the prison pipeline. These two concepts work simultaneously together — it’s not possible to remove people from prisons without decriminalizing what put them there.
Decriminalizing mental health, especially in the Black community, may showcase evidence that being intentionally violent, and being deeply immersed in an episode are not synonymous. This would then lead to assisting those with mental health needs in an efficient way that benefits them, and society. Such evidence could help offenders be exonerated, as well as prevent others from ever having to experience the inhumanity of prisons. This is just one example of how these steps are essential to creating societal environments that help everyone involved.
As someone that’s dealt with harm, reading these concepts makes it seem easy to deconstruct and engage in a restorative and transformative way, but the reality is that it’s not easy, and it won’t be as we move along.
Nothing about sexual assault is painless, and engaging in a way that promotes healing and the disruption of a vicious cycle may be helpful to those looking to move forward — for themselves, and with their lives.
Many people mistake this trial of justice as one that entails that those harmed must be forgiving. However, nothing is required of the victims. In fact, in most restorative proceedings, the victims only engage in a way that they feel comfortable. The offender is the one that must do the necessary work to restore peace, and strength within a community.
Knowing that no burden is placed on the victim typically helps victims feel more comfortable within the process. It’s difficult to imagine myself wanting to sit down with someone that has harmed me, but the restorative and transformative cycle focus on the abuse in a way that addresses the communal problems leading up to it.
Even with all this information, abolition seems far from becoming a reality. However, despite this, it is essential not to feel discouraged. There doesn’t need to be a concise pathway to freedom, healing, or transformation. The only thing that matters is that victims and our advocates take the necessary steps when we feel ready. We start with our own lives, then within the communities that we’re a part. The course of restoration is not a single, momentary instance, but an opportunity to warp the future that lies ahead.
Barbara “Simi“Muhumuza is an undergraduate student at GSU. She is studying psychology, and is an avid black mental health advocate. She is also a poet, and author of “For When You Decide To Be Honest.” She DJ’s on her spare time, and can be reached on all social outlets as @simimoonlight.
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