Languishing in jail for six hours provided me with one of the most educating and enlightening experiences of my time at Georgetown. Several weeks ago, I, along with two other students and a former Burmese political prisoner, Aung Din, was arrested at a protest in front of the Burmese embassy. We stood up for a just cause-human rights in Burma-and the police arrested us when we blocked traffic. I expected to walk into jail, sleep a bit and walk out a while later no different than before. I underestimated the emotional experience of losing one’s freedom. As a liberal human rights activist, I have always championed the freedom of others from unjust imprisonment. Yet, as an American accustomed to the rule of law, I never felt the burden of living under the rule of fear. While short, my jail time gave me a much greater appreciation for freedom.
When we arrived at the Metropolitian Police Third Precinct headquarters, the police unlocked our cuffs and lined us up against the wall. I had talked to people who had been arrested before for civil disobedience, and they said the police would only keep us for a few hours. They also warned me that the police would strip us of everything but our clothing, even our belts and shoelaces, on the premise that we might use them for suicide or strangling cellmates. Therefore, I wore my sandals and left my belt at home. They took Aung Din and me to the men’s cellblock, while the other two students went to the female section. I looked at our cell, our home for the next few hours, and mentally gagged. It had two metal trays to serve as beds, a dirty gray toilet and barely enough room for the two of us to pass each other. No clocks, no watches, no TV. I had gone camping in remote areas, but this went beyond anything I had ever endured. Sure I could lie on the metal bed for a few hours, no matter how uncomfortable it felt. The physical conditions didn’t bother me so much as the lack of freedom and space, especially coming from a house in Long Island in which I had a room to myself.
It was the toilet that really scared me. Whenever I go into public restrooms, I always head for the most isolated urinal or stall. I think few feel comfortable answering nature’s call with onlookers. Yet, here I saw the porcelain goddess kneeling beside the lower bed. Its open mouth glared at me, as if in mock shock over the lack of privacy it knew I would have to endure to use it. I said a silent prayer of thanks for having the foresight to use the toilet in my apartment before I left for the protest that morning. Staring at the wide-mouthed demon before me, I swore I would not stoop to using it.
We both tried to sleep, but couldn’t. After a few minutes, I asked Aung Din about his experiences in Burma’s notorious Insein prison. He looked up at me and explained in his thick accent, “In Burma, they put us all in one room. Sometimes, we would have to take turns lying down, since there wasn’t enough space.” One of the guards came by to read us our rights. We both stated that we understood our rights but felt no need for a lawyer. When the guard left, I asked Aung Din about the prison guards in Burma. “They would beat us sometimes. Not very friendly at all.” I hesitated to ask about the toilets.
After forty minutes, Aung Din took a nap. I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. I sat in my bed, listening to everything and anything I could. Without books, a pen, paper, radio, T.V. or other commodities, I had little else to do. Silence. I started to make out the voices of officers in the other room. Some of them were debating how much the law required for our bail. Without a clock, I hadn’t the slightest idea how long we had already waited. I asked a policeman for the time. “Quarter past two.” 2:15! My Statistics class had just begun.
At that point, I gave up on getting out early and stared at my metal bed. I stared down and noticed the hundreds of words etched in it. I started reading a few and soon assembled a history of my cell. The legacy of another protest lived on with the words “Free Tibet” written by my feet. Another former jailbird vented his rage on the cops by scribbling “Fuck the Pigs” on the head of the bed. Still others had written in Spanish, or had simply jotted down their names. I took a small piece of broken metal and tried to write my name. Then, I rolled over to lie on my back and realized I’d have my worst nightmare:
I had to my go to the bathroom.
I had no clue when I would get out. I knew I could try to hold it for another few hours, but what then? Then I recalled my conversation with Aung Din a few hours earlier. I was in an American jail, without any bruises or bloodied clothes, and I knew I would leave before nightfall. I had no right to complain.
After the first time, going to the bathroom wasn’t as hard. I had overcome one mental torture. However, as I continued listening to the conversations of the cops, my heart sank. Somebody had mentioned 7 p.m, and I feared that he had pushed the time of my expected freedom back further. At that point, I gave up on dinner with my roommates. The state had total control over my freedom. I was nothing; a bunch of bureaucratic files in some police headquarters’ drawer. Even if I had promised to redress my “crime” with hours of community service, discovered a cure for AIDS, or transcended the spiritual plane of this universe, I had no choice but to sit in my cell.
My journey from hopelessness to despair was interrupted by the footsteps of one of the police officers. He asked simply, “Which one of you is Dominic Nardi?” I replied that I was. He unlocked the cell door and asked me to come with him. He took me over to a machine to scan in my fingerprints and take my photos. After my fingerprints, the officer asked me to sit in a chair while they brought out Aung Din. Everyone commented on how the two of us had been the nicest prisoners they had ever met. Finally, I heard the words I so long waited to hear: “You’re free to go,” the most beautiful words I’d ever heard.
Some of my fellow activists and members of the Burmese community had waited outside to greet us. I got a hero’s welcome, yet, I felt odd. For a few hours of my life, I had been a political prisoner of sorts. While I do not exaggerate the trials of my stay, I admit I found it more difficult to remain upbeat in jail than I had expected. Sitting in my room later that evening, I could only think of how real political prisoners, men like Aung Din, survived conditions hundreds of times worse than my simple cell-with no hope of freedom.
Dominic Nardi is junior in the School of Foreign Service. In his former life, he was Robert F. Kennedy.
