The following piece, written by Wallace “Shubaka” Kirby, won third place in the inaugural Voices Beyond the Walls writing contest, presented by the National Religious Campaign Against Torture’s National Network of Solitary Survivors in collaboration with Solitary Watch. The first place winner was published here and the second place winner here. As NRCAT notes: “The contest aims to uplift the lived experiences, resilience, and advocacy of individuals affected by solitary confinement. Participants from across the country submitted original pieces that showcased their experiences, demonstrated their ability to create beautiful and powerful art out of adversity, and ultimately exposed the inhumanity of this practice.” More information about NRCAT can be found here.

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CHARACTERS:

• PJ (40s): Black female. Elder Sister. Stripped of her freedom but not her dignity. Confined for tax fraud. Articulate, resilient, fiercely maternal. Held in solitary at a women’s prison in West Virginia.
• LUQMAN (30s): Black male. Younger brother. Hardened but deeply intellectual. Confined at the Maryland supermax prison.

SETTING:

The stage is split down the center by a stark, psychological divide.

• STAGE LEFT: PJ’s world. A minimalist representation of a solitary confinement cell. A concrete slab for a bed, a stainless-steel toilet-and-sink combo, and a thin mat. The colors are sterile, washed-out grays.
• STAGE RIGHT: Luqman’s world. Similar matching cell at the Maryland supermax. Heavy steel bars.

AT RISE:

The stage is dark. A low, industrial hum vibrates through the theater. The relentless sound of prison ventilation.

Slowly, two distinct pools of harsh, overhead light illuminate the cells. PJ stands Stage Left, pacing her tight span of her tiny cell. She holds a piece of yellow legal paper close to her face to catch the dim light. Stage Right, Luqman sits on the floor with back against the cold concrete wall, holding a matching pen and paper.

They do not look at each other. They speak their letters aloud, their voices slicing through the isolation.

LUQMAN (speaking with intensity):

Dear Big Sis,

I’m imagining what you’re being forced to endure there at Alderson, in solitary at that! And, primarily because this inherently racialized justice system and its mass media magicians purposefully characterized you as a callous, calculating, greedy Black woman from SE DC. 

Navigating prison, and even more, solitary confinement, will demand a great deal of mental, spiritual, and physical readjustment and balancing. The deprivations and trauma are realities.

PJ (stops pacing, closing her eyes, absorbing his voice):

Oh, Luqman…

LUQMAN: 

Hey Sis. After thinking about all that has occurred, and you in the human cage called solitary confinement, my thoughts shifted to what had to be no less than a terrifying, traumatizing ordeal—driving those nerve-wracking five hours from SE DC to Alderson, WV. I can almost imagine your justified nervousness from the countless uncertainties flooding your mind after being sentenced so unfairly to five years. I can only compare this scenario with that of our enslaved ancestors, torn away from family and loved ones during overt slavery, where they were considered property and less than human. Like us right now. They had no control of their very lives. 

Do you think this unjust, racialized criminal justice system would have imposed such a harsh, lengthy sentence… as you’ve received…on an affluent woman of the opposite hue?

PJ (bitter smile):

Never! Not in a million lifetimes!

LUQMAN (stands up, his energy shifting, pacing like a caged panther):

The audacity of the controlled mass media magicians who attended your hearings purposely to be able to characterize you as  a calculating, heartless criminal operating a continuous criminal enterprise through tax fraud. It’s message…”How dare this black woman, from a poor-working class background, entertain the gall to defy and defraud the MIGHTY I.R.S.” 

I was having mental flashbacks to my own countless forays with this notoriously racist and ruthless said criminal justice system. I understand better than most exactly how damaging forced confinement can be, confined in both DC juvenile institutions and even now languishing in solitary confinement at Maryland’s supermax facility. Deprivation, regimentation, and isolation traumatizes!

Flash thought. What if I had been the person transporting you to Alderson, and things turned out far different? Instead of arriving at those awaiting chain-linked gates, we detoured. A Harrient Tubman excursion happens. We escape the prison plantation, fleeing to freedom.

Remember, be astute and observant, even in the tiny space of that isolation cage. Never allow the circumstances to dictate to you. Control your own circumstances as best you humanly can. Love you to the stars and beyond. I’ll always be here to support you, even if these prisoncrats decide to disrupt our correspondence. Love will conquer all!

Your brother,

Luqman

(A heavy silence falls. PJ looks down at the letter in her hands, her shoulders trembling slightly before she anchors herself, sitting on the mat on the floor.)

PJ (writing, her voice clear, maternal, yet strained):

Dear Luqman,

Your words arrived like water in the middle of a drought. You talked about the five-hour drive here from SE DC. Indeed, every mile felt like a strip-search of my soul. Passing the winding green hills of Virginia, all I could see was Mama’s face in the window glass. I remembered her telling us before she passed; “ No matter where the world puts you, you hold your head up because you belong to God and you belong to me.”

But Luqman, they try to scrub Mama out of you the minute you walk through those prison gates. They strip you naked, make you cough and squat, and then they lock you in a box where the lights never truly go out. Twenty-three hours a day, Luqman. Just me and the echo of my own heartbeat.

They even made me out to be a queenpin. But, I was only a black mother trying to stretch pennies in the gentrified city that forgot us.

Skip the talk about detours and escaping, little brother. My heart leaped when I read your words about the Underground Railroad, but reality brought me right back to this haunting isolation cell.  A detour would have made me a fugitive, torn me further away from my babies. I have to face this beast head-on so I can walk out of here with my papers signed and my spirit intact. You’ve been inside since you were a teenager, Luqman. Don’t let their concrete turn your heart to stone. Tell me, how do you keep your mind clear when the walls start closing in,or survive the quiet?  Write back soon.

Love, PJ

(PJ folds her letter. Lights snap back to Luqman standing, holding PJ’s  reply. He’s visibly agitated.)

LUQMAN (voice raised, pacing fiercely):

I’m a student of survival by necessity, not by choice! 

(He stops. Slams his hand against the wall.)

I survive the quiet by weaponizing it! I don’t sit and weep. I study the architecture of oppression. I read Comrade George Jackson, and Baldwin, and commune with our ancestors who survived the hulls of slave ships. Solitary isn’t just a physical space, it’s a psychological warfare, designed to induce mental death. They want us to hallucinate, beg, and break. When I put pen to paper and send my thoughts across the ether to you, I’m committing a revolutionary act. We are black family royalty, PJ! Survivors!

PJ (standing up, shouting across the stage as if breaking through the miles):

Luqman! I’m your older sister! Changed your diapers, watched you take your first steps, and I got the wisdom! Isolation is isolation. The silence here screams just as loud as it does in Maryland!

 (Her voice cracks, softening into raw vulnerability.)

When the guards slam that steel door for lockdown, my chest tightens so hard I can’t breath. I look at the calendar, and I realize my babies are growing up without me. I’m failing them, Luqman. The family anchor is rusted and broken. I needed to know my brother would be with me.

(Luqman freezes. Her words hit him like a physical blow. He slowly drops his head, his posture collapsing to a wounded young man. He sinks to his concrete bed, burying his face in his hands.)

LUQMAN (voice barely a whisper, thick with unexpressed tears):

PJ…

PJ (looking toward his side of the stage for the first time):

I’m listening, Luqman. I’m right here.

LUQMAN (looking at his hands):

I’m matured. 

(He looks up, his eyes wide in the harsh light.)

They don’t let us touch anyone here. I haven’t felt the warmth of a human hand since the day they arrested me. No handshakes. No hugs. And, when Mama passed, they wouldn’t let me attend her funeral. They kept me in a cage with a camera watching me grieve. I had to scream her name into a stainless steel toilet bowl just so the walls wouldn’t swallow it.

PJ (tears streaming down her face, standing close to the invisible center line):

You listen to me. They can cage our bodies, limit our phone calls, ration or refuse our mail, but they can’t ration our bloodline. We are our mother’s children. 

(She reaches her hand out toward his side of the stage, pressing her palm against the empty air.)

Press your hand against the wall, Luqman. Do it for your Big Sis.

(Luqman slowly rises, walks to the separation of his cell from the void, lifting his palm and pressing it opposite PJ’s hand.)

PJ:

Feel that? That’s our legacy. That’s Mama’s spirit. That’s the strength of every ancestor who resisted. We’re going to survive solitary confinement.

We’re a team. A united front. They want to break our spirits, but they won’t!

LUQMAN (nodding, his voice ringing with renewed, humanized strength):

They belong to the stars, and beyond.

(Blackout)