Malika Henderson is a 30-year-old incarcerated abolitionist from North Philadelphia. Henderson has been incarcerated for 12 years, including nine years in solitary confinement at various times. In addition to utilizing every means available to elevate herself while behind bars, Henderson stands up for the human rights of her fellow incarcerated women and fights to end solitary confinement across Pennsylvania. Henderson is a plaintiff in the federal class-action lawsuit Hammond v. PADOC, which claims that holding people with mental illness in solitary confinement violates their constitutional rights.

The author can be contacted at: Smart Communications/PADOC, Malika Henderson #OX4166, SCI Cambridge Springs, PO Box 33028, St. Petersburg, FL, 33733. —Valerie Kiebala

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My name is Malika Henderson and I am 30 years old. I grew up in North Philly, and I’ve been incarcerated since I was 19 years old—more than a third of my life. Most of my incarceration has been at the women’s prison State Correctional Institution (SCI) Muncy, which is located about three hours from Philly. 

Like Assata Shakur, I am an incarcerated Black woman, and like Assata Shakur, I am a survivor of solitary confinement. I’ve been in solitary confinement at least 30 times for doing things like getting girls together to protest unjust treatment. Once, an officer called us black turds and niggers, so we all got together and wrote to Central Office. Eventually, he was removed from the units. Another time when I was in the hole, we were given very small portions of food—so small that even a child would go hungry. We were going to sleep hungry every night, so we began to write grievances collectively to say that the prison could not use starvation as punishment. Now, we get more food in the hole than we do in general population. These instances showed me the power of changing things when we come together; they also showed me that when you stand up for yourself, your oppressors will try to punish you to stop you. 

The last time I was in solitary confinement was the longest and most brutal: two years and three months in the hole. 

Let me explain solitary to you. I’m locked in a very small cell with a table, a bunk bed, a toilet and sink. There are two small windows you can barely see out of and a small slot where they slide your medicine and food trays to you. We are only allowed to shower three times a week. Anytime we leave our cell, they walk us around on a tether. The dictionary definition of a tether is a device to control wild animals. We are lower than animals to the prison. 

Being locked in a cell with nobody to talk to or physically touch or even be around you is devastating. It makes you feel hopeless. I’ve seen people lose their minds and start smearing feces on the walls, screaming, and acting wild because they are suffering so intensely. 

Solitary has taken so much from me. It’s torture. When I was in the hole, I couldn’t attend my grandma’s funeral through Zoom because they said it was a security risk to take me to the chapel. That week I tried to kill myself. It wasn’t the first time. While in the hole, I’ve tried to kill myself over ten times. In solitary, if we’re trying to kill ourselves and don’t take the sheet from around our necks when they tell us to, the correctional officers (COs) will mace us while we’re hanging. That’s what happened to me. I had tried to kill myself and covered the window of my cell. The CO took the sheet off my door, saw me hanging, and maced me while I was hanging. Instead of actually being offered mental health services, that’s the type of abuse that happens to us in solitary confinement. And as further punishment, they took away my sheets, mattress, and water. 

Since I’ve been in solitary, I’ve been beaten up by COs twice, and I’ve had to get stitches twice. The first time, the CO slammed my hand and almost cut my thumb off. The second time, the CO was mad and put my cuffs on so tight that when they took them back off, I had to get stitches in my wrist. When you’re in solitary confinement, they can hurt you so much easier than in general population, and they get away with it because no one is watching. 

They put us in solitary confinement to break us, but my experiences have only deepened my resolve to fight for the human rights of incarcerated people. I’m now a lead (and the only woman) plaintiff in Hammond v. PADOC, which is a class-action lawsuit against the Pennsylvania Department of Corrections, challenging the constitutionality of solitary confinement. 

Being a part of the lawsuit, I’m not just fighting for me. I’m fighting for the hundreds of men and women in solitary confinement. And I’m not going to stop. 

Assata Shakur inspires me because she is a radical. She stood up for herself and she stood up for justice, even when there were grave consequences for doing so. And she didn’t just fight for herself—she fought for everyone’s liberation. She fought for people of color and for the freedom to be and live how she wanted to. Even though she was incarcerated, she managed to get free and stay free. 

I’m going to get free and stay free, too.