#CagingCOVID: Stopping the Spread Behind Bars

While the world is trying to flatten the curve of a pandemic without end in sight, U.S. prisons and detention centers continue to be COVID-19 hotspots, warehousing millions and failing to make the substantial populations reductions needed to create conditions of social distance.

#CagingCOVID is a campaign to shine a light on mass incarceration in a time of a public health crisis, and apply pressure to use parole, clemency and decarceration at local and federal levels to stop the spread of the virus behind bars.

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Inhumane Treatment in A Georgia Prison

Sep 25, 2020 | by Laura Bratton

I’ve been incarcerated 12 years: 6.5 awaiting trial and 5.5 in prison. My family really doesn’t know what this place is like, so they don’t understand the dangers.  Or, perhaps they do, but we don’t talk about it. There is little they can do about it anyway, so I don’t want to depress them.

By, Anonymous:

Many of the people here are truly scared. They are scared of dying and also scared for their families.

By official counts, 61 people have died from COVID-19 in Georgia prisons. In reality, many more have died, but they’ve been listed as natural deaths. Several hundred have officially had it, but they only test you if you are clearly sick, and in the beginning, they only tested you if you went to the hospital.

Here, a number of people, especially older people, have died in their beds.  There have been at least ten deaths at this prison alone.  However, again, the official count on the Georgia Department of Corrections website never counted them as COVID deaths. I’m in contact with many other people at other prisons, and they say the same thing.

The prison usually locks down when someone dies. We are frequently locked down.   

We were issued masks, but not real masks — just masks some prison inmates made out of sheets and we haven’t had any new masks since April.

The prison is extremely under-staffed and the staff either just doesn’t get it, or doesn’t care.  Many refuse to wear masks, or wear them over their chin rather than their mouth and nose. Many come right up to you to talk, not following any kind of protection regulation. 

We aren’t given hand sanitizer.  They give us two bars of soap each week, and they are a little larger than hotel soap.  But we usually don’t have hot water.  Sometimes, there is no water.

Water, as with all maintenance, is always an issue.  These facilities are very old and have never been well maintained.  If your water goes out, it could be out for weeks or months.  I have gone without water, and there are some cells that haven’t had water for weeks. When the showers have only cold water, no one takes a shower.  You cannot control the temperature.

I believe violence has increased.  There have been three stabbings and one rape at this camp since Sunday, and this is Tuesday. Drug use has also gone up. The only way I believe for drugs to get in is through the officers.  Some have argued that outside work details and visitation were responsible, but we have not had those since March, yet the drugs and tobacco keep coming in huge supplies.  

Then, there are the food and supply shortages.  The food they give us is not enough to live on; it’s not edible and sometimes it’s just not safe. So, we buy from the prison store to live, fixing our own meals.  We can order from the prison store once a week.  They sell Ramen noodles, summer sausage, tuna, chips, and candies.  Everything is overpriced.  

A five-ounce packet of tuna costs $2.50.  Ramen noodle soups cost $0.45 each.  The spending limit is $70 per week. I generally hit that limit. I also buy food from people who work in the kitchen. This is usually onions or other vegetables.  They are stolen, of course, but the prisons in Georgia do not pay the workers, so it is their only way to get money and my only way to get fresh vegetables.  The stolen food may cost me another $30 per week. Not many can afford this.

The Covid crisis is just a small part of the inhumanity of the Georgia prison system.  

I’ve been incarcerated 12 years: 6.5 awaiting trial and 5.5 in prison. My family really doesn’t know what this place is like, so they don’t understand the dangers.  Or, perhaps they do, but we don’t talk about it. There is little they can do about it anyway, so I don’t want to depress them.

I’m older – 56 – and I’m prepared to die, so I don’t worry about it myself.  My mission now is simply to make the system more just and more humane.

 

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