Behind Bars for Climate Justice: My Four-Year Journey in a Non-Violent Protest Prison Diary

July 2024

As I sit in a small metal box on a prison van headed to HMP Bronzefield, I surprisingly feel calm. I’m on trial with four other members of Just Stop Oil for peacefully protesting on the M25 motorway in 2022. The courtroom atmosphere is tense. The judge has told the jury to ignore the climate crisis, and we can’t discuss it fully in our defense. But I find solace in having this platform to voice the urgent issue we all face.

Arriving in my cell later that night, the sound of the key turning in the lock makes me feel isolated. I’m on remand, with still a week left in court, and communication with my fellow defendants is nearly impossible. Yet, the messages and letters from supporters outside lift my spirits. One day, a group of 11 people gathered outside the court holding signs that read, “Jurors have an absolute right to acquit a defendant according to their conscience.” They were arrested for their beliefs.

The daily routine in jail is challenging. I’m up at 5:30 AM, given toast for breakfast, and taken to a holding room with my group. The two-hour ride to court is uncomfortable, and we spend long hours in concrete holding cells. By the time we return to prison, we often miss dinner, and the food is far from satisfactory. Preparing for my trial is hard since we aren’t allowed to bring pens or paper. I scribbed my closing statement on the back of an envelope in blue crayon.

Sentencing day was filled with tension. The judge called us fanatics who disregard others’ rights, a label often thrown at us. Sometimes, the weight of this accusation almost overwhelms me. I was motivated by love and concern for our planet.

To our shock, we received harsh sentences. The judge hinted at long jail time, and we were given four-year terms for causing public nuisance. Roger Hallam, one of the co-founders of Just Stop Oil, received five years. These were the longest sentences ever for non-violent protesters in the UK. I had spent some time in jail before this and was somewhat prepared. My family, including my three adult children, supported me, but the atmosphere was heavy. A UN rapporteur attending our trial said our sentences were unacceptable in a democracy. This gives me hope for change, but I must return to HMP Bronzefield for now.

Walking on to a prison wing for the first time is disturbing. The noise echoes; distressing sounds fill the air, making it hard to feel calm. Most women here are awaiting trial or sentencing. Contrary to popular belief, many are not violent offenders. Instead, they face various charges, including drug offences, and others are simply seeking asylum.

While some may be found not guilty, they still wait anxiously for their trial dates. The system feels brutal. I often wonder, who benefits from jailing non-violent individuals when they haven’t even been tried yet?

The cells vary in size. Mine feels like a cramped box, with just enough room for a bed and a small chair. There’s a TV monitor, and a toilet and sink occupy a corner. We are locked in for about 15 hours each day. We get two vacuum flasks for hot water each day. Getting online or purchasing essentials is a struggle, done through a digital kiosk shared by many inmates.

With very low expectations, I cope better. After six weeks, I still only have two changes of clothes. Most need to wait to retrieve their belongings, which is frustrating. Queuing for medication can take up our limited fresh air time. My cellmate, Sue, and I get along well. There’s little judgment about why we are here; most people are focused on surviving the system together.

Each morning starts with noise as we’re woken at 7:30 AM. Breakfast is chaotic, a mix of chatter and demands. After eating, we form queues for movement slips, which we need to access anything outside our cells. Without it, we remain locked down.

I find myself craving connection to those I love – the absence of which is the biggest contrast with life outside.

Having my movement slip allows me outside briefly to get some fresh air before heading to a stark building for work. I joined a workshop refurbishing bicycles for charity. Engaging in practical tasks helps give structure and purpose to our days.

Lunch breaks lead us back to our cells until the afternoon, when we might be locked down again. Two officers search our cells today, taking extra flasks and fruit. After being searched, we join the queue for dinner, a consistently tense time, especially after cell searches. Thankfully, one friend diffuses a potential altercation between two angry inmates.

After our meal, we get an hour of outside time. It feels good to breathe fresh air, though many sit, absorbed in their vapes. I walk with Anne; she’s struggling after being recalled to prison, even though she was released recently due to illness. Unfortunately, many face similar battles with the system.

As we head back in from our outdoor time, chaos can erupt. Everyone hurries to get showers or grab flasks for water. The noise from cells fills the hallways and can stretch into the late hours.

Many women here don’t belong in prison. They need mental health or drug support. The environment can be destabilizing, highlighting the urgent need for reform in our prison system. With a new government in place, I hope for significant changes.

August

I prioritize staying connected to the world while imprisoned. Without internet or reliable newspapers, limited TV and radio become my only news source. Sharing a cell means we both tune into what the other is watching or listening to.

This month, Sue and I are both heartbroken over tragic news: three children lost their lives in a Southport incident. Both of us are parents, so it resonates deeply with us. We sit together in silence as we absorb the magnitude of the loss.

As days pass, we’re further disturbed by violent riots triggered by social media. The people involved receive an average of two-year sentences, making my own feel even more unjust. Fellow inmates express their shock at this disparity, and conversations on Radio 4 highlight these issues, exposing flaws in our justice system.

Meanwhile, I feel a pressing need for connection with my loved ones. In prison, the absence of those relationships weighs heavily on my heart. One day, I stand in a dinner queue, chatting with Pam, who faces her trial for activism against the situation in Gaza. Classed as a terrorist, she struggles with limited contact and isolation.

After dinner, Sue shares her frustration about missing her scheduled video call with her daughter and granddaughter. She’s feeling the loss of family support acutely, especially as her trial dates continue to get postponed.

On a brighter note, Saturdays bring a welcome change. We enjoy the fresh air and activities like chess club and philosophy discussions led by students. Although I don’t feel entirely at home yet, I’m starting to adjust to my surroundings.

September

This morning, I feel nervous as I pack up my belongings. Today, I am moving to HMP Send. My emotions are mixed. I requested this change and look forward to seeing Cressie and Lucia again. But I’ll miss Sue and my steady routine here.

At HMP Send, the environment feels calmer and more welcoming. The walls are painted, and there’s greenery around. After settling in, I run into Lucia, and we embrace warmly—it’s comforting to reunite.

Everybody is coming in here with a lot of trauma. They have failed to get the support they need outside, and prison feels like a convenient way to lock them out of sight.

Life at Send is more structured. I finally have a cell to myself, and the atmosphere is filled with mutual support. Many of us carry trauma from our pasts, but we’re united in our shared experiences.

During lunch, I chat with a woman from Bronzefield. We discuss our concerns over finances. Prison wages are low, making it hard for many to meet their daily needs, especially when purchasing items like toiletries or phone credits.

In conversations with fellow inmates, I often find that many have faced violence or personal struggles. Their stories highlight a pressing issue: the lack of support outside prison walls, pushing them into this cycle.

October

Life in HMP Send feels more like a community compared to Bronzefield. However, the reality of long-term sentences weighs heavily on me. I’ve been here about a month, and I’m already feeling the strain of confinement.

To pass the time, we engage in various activities: gardening, kitchens, vocational training, and even choir. The improvements in meals from Bronzefield offer a bit of relief, but I still find myself longing for the normalcy of everyday life.

After a morning in the gardens, we return to cells for lunch. The menu has improved, with a rotation that includes better options than before. I cherish our prison parkruns; completing the circuit inside gives me a sense of accomplishment.

Yesterday, I met Dawn during my cool-down after running. She’s serving a 20-year sentence, and her story resonates with many of us here; circumstances don’t always dictate justice.

November

As elections unfold globally, it feels like a dark time for social justice and the environment. Sharing frustrations with fellow inmates helps uplift our spirits despite the grim news. The weeks blur together, and it’s hard to keep track of time, but I settle into a routine.

Our privileges vary significantly based on our prison status; enhancements grant better accommodations and more time outside cells. I see some receive better treatment, and there’s an underlying sense of inequality that permeates the system.

As the month progresses, I still find joy in visits with family and friends. Those moments are precious, especially the hugs and laughter we share. However, I dread missing important occasions, knowing I can’t be present for my daughter’s wedding.

December

As Christmas approaches, we start preparing festive activities despite limited options. We’re allowed to participate in secret Santa and make wreaths with natural materials, moments that help brighten our otherwise stark environment.

Christmas meals are subpar, with only a few special items added, but I hold on to chocolate I’ve saved. Carol singing and holiday crafts offer a break from our daily routine, creating a festivity we desperately need.

Being moved to a new wing gives me newfound hope, especially with a hot shower at my disposal. Yet, the realities of prison life remain, as we’re often talked down to and treated as if we’re less than human.

The question we need to ask is not “What have you done?” but “What has happened to you?”

Everything I’ve witnessed inside has opened my eyes to issues faced by many. We are more alike than different, sharing dreams and histories. The people inside are parents, siblings and children, all deserving of compassion and understanding. I carry a spirit of hope into the new year, ready to advocate for change and support.