Tag Archives: justice

The Atlantic Features: The Case for Reparations

Carlos Javier Ortiz

Two hundred and fifty years of slavery. Ninety years of Jim Crow. Sixty years of separate but equal. Thirty-five years of racist housing policy. Until we reckon with our compounding moral debts, America will never be whole.


May 21, 2014

And if thy brother, a Hebrew man, or a Hebrew woman, be sold unto thee, and serve thee six years; then in the seventh year thou shalt let him go free from thee. And when thou sendest him out free from thee, thou shalt not let him go away empty: thou shalt furnish him liberally out of thy flock, and out of thy floor, and out of thy winepress: of that wherewith the LORD thy God hath blessed thee thou shalt give unto him. And thou shalt remember that thou wast a bondman in the land of Egypt, and the LORD thy God redeemed thee: therefore I command thee this thing today.— Deuteronomy 15: 12–15Besides the crime which consists in violating the law, and varying from the right rule of reason, whereby a man so far becomes degenerate, and declares himself to quit the principles of human nature, and to be a noxious creature, there is commonly injury done to some person or other, and some other man receives damage by his transgression: in which case he who hath received any damage, has, besides the right of punishment common to him with other men, a particular right to seek reparation.— John Locke, “Second Treatise”By our unpaid labor and suffering, we have earned the right to the soil, many times over and over, and now we are determined to have it. — Anonymous, 1861

I. “So That’s Just One Of My Losses”

Clyde Ross was born in 1923, the seventh of 13 children, near Clarksdale, Mississippi, the home of the blues. Ross’s parents owned and farmed a 40-acre tract of land, flush with cows, hogs, and mules. Ross’s mother would drive to Clarksdale to do her shopping in a horse and buggy, in which she invested all the pride one might place in a Cadillac. The family owned another horse, with a red coat, which they gave to Clyde. The Ross family wanted for little, save that which all black families in the Deep South then desperately desired—the protection of the law.

Clyde Ross, photographed in November 2013 in his home in the North Lawndale neighborhood of Chicago, where he has lived for more than 50 years. When he first tried to get a legitimate mortgage, he was denied; mortgages were effectively not available to black people. (Carlos Javier Ortiz)

In the 1920s, Jim Crow Mississippi was, in all facets of society, a kleptocracy. The majority of the people in the state were perpetually robbed of the vote—a hijacking engineered through the trickery of the poll tax and the muscle of the lynch mob. Between 1882 and 1968, more black people were lynched in Mississippi than in any other state. “You and I know what’s the best way to keep the nigger from voting,” blustered Theodore Bilbo, a Mississippi senator and a proud Klansman. “You do it the night before the election.”

The state’s regime partnered robbery of the franchise with robbery of the purse. Many of Mississippi’s black farmers lived in debt peonage, under the sway of cotton kings who were at once their landlords, their employers, and their primary merchants. Tools and necessities were advanced against the return on the crop, which was determined by the employer. When farmers were deemed to be in debt—and they often were—the negative balance was then carried over to the next season. A man or woman who protested this arrangement did so at the risk of grave injury or death. Refusing to work meant arrest under vagrancy laws and forced labor under the state’s penal system.

Well into the 20th century, black people spoke of their flight from Mississippi in much the same manner as their runagate ancestors had. In her 2010 book, The Warmth of Other Suns, Isabel Wilkerson tells the story of Eddie Earvin, a spinach picker who fled Mississippi in 1963, after being made to work at gunpoint. “You didn’t talk about it or tell nobody,” Earvin said. “You had to sneak away.”

When Clyde Ross was still a child, Mississippi authorities claimed his father owed $3,000 in back taxes. The elder Ross could not read. He did not have a lawyer. He did not know anyone at the local courthouse. He could not expect the police to be impartial. Effectively, the Ross family had no way to contest the claim and no protection under the law. The authorities seized the land. They seized the buggy. They took the cows, hogs, and mules. And so for the upkeep of separate but equal, the entire Ross family was reduced to sharecropping.

This was hardly unusual. In 2001, the Associated Press published a three-part investigation into the theft of black-owned land stretching back to the antebellum period. The series documented some 406 victims and 24,000 acres of land valued at tens of millions of dollars. The land was taken through means ranging from legal chicanery to terrorism. “Some of the land taken from black families has become a country club in Virginia,” the AP reported, as well as “oil fields in Mississippi” and “a baseball spring training facility in Florida.”

Clyde Ross was a smart child. His teacher thought he should attend a more challenging school. There was very little support for educating black people in Mississippi. But Julius Rosenwald, a part owner of Sears, Roebuck, had begun an ambitious effort to build schools for black children throughout the South. Ross’s teacher believed he should attend the local Rosenwald school. It was too far for Ross to walk and get back in time to work in the fields. Local white children had a school bus. Clyde Ross did not, and thus lost the chance to better his education.

Then, when Ross was 10 years old, a group of white men demanded his only childhood possession—the horse with the red coat. “You can’t have this horse. We want it,” one of the white men said. They gave Ross’s father $17.

“I did everything for that horse,” Ross told me. “Everything. And they took him. Put him on the racetrack. I never did know what happened to him after that, but I know they didn’t bring him back. So that’s just one of my losses.”

Sharecropper boys in 1936 (Carly Mydans/Library of Congress)

The losses mounted. As sharecroppers, the Ross family saw their wages treated as the landlord’s slush fund. Landowners were supposed to split the profits from the cotton fields with sharecroppers. But bales would often disappear during the count, or the split might be altered on a whim. If cotton was selling for 50 cents a pound, the Ross family might get 15 cents, or only five. One year Ross’s mother promised to buy him a $7 suit for a summer program at their church. She ordered the suit by mail. But that year Ross’s family was paid only five cents a pound for cotton. The mailman arrived with the suit. The Rosses could not pay. The suit was sent back. Clyde Ross did not go to the church program.

It was in these early years that Ross began to understand himself as an American—he did not live under the blind decree of justice, but under the heel of a regime that elevated armed robbery to a governing principle. He thought about fighting. “Just be quiet,” his father told him. “Because they’ll come and kill us all.”

Clyde Ross grew. He was drafted into the Army. The draft officials offered him an exemption if he stayed home and worked. He preferred to take his chances with war. He was stationed in California. He found that he could go into stores without being bothered. He could walk the streets without being harassed. He could go into a restaurant and receive service.

Ross was shipped off to Guam. He fought in World War II to save the world from tyranny. But when he returned to Clarksdale, he found that tyranny had followed…”;  Read more 


White Supremacy Acquits George Zimmerman

By Aura Bogado (see more info on author, below)

July 14, 2013 “Information Clearing House – “The Nation” —A jury has found George Zimmerman not guilty of all charges in connection to death of 17-year-old Trayvon Martin. But while the verdict came as a surprise to some people, it makes perfect sense to others. This verdict is a crystal-clear illustration of the way white supremacy operates in America.

 Re-blogged from moorbey.wordpress.com

Throughout the trial, the media repeatedly referred to an “all-woman jury” in that Seminole County courtroom, adding that most of them were mothers. That is true—but so is that five of the six jurors were white, and that is profoundly significant for cases like this one. We also know that the lone juror of color was seen apparently wiping a tear during the prosecution’s rebuttal yesterday. But that tear didn’t ultimately convince her or the white people on that jury that Zimmerman was guilty of anything. Not guilty. Not after stalking, shooting and killing a black child, a child that the defense insultingly argued was “armed with concrete.”

In the last few days, Latinos in particular have spoken up again about Zimmerman’s race, and the “white Hispanic” label in particular, largely responding to social media users and mass media pundits who employed the term. Watching Zimmerman in the defense seat, his sister in the courtroom, and his mother on the stand, one can’t deny the skin color that informs their experience. They are not white. Yet Zimmerman’s apparent ideology—one that is suspicious of black men in his neighborhood, the “assholes who always get away—” is one that adheres to white supremacy. It was replicated in the courtroom by his defense, whose team tore away at Rachel Jeantel, questioning the young woman as if she was taking a Jim Crow–era literacy test. A defense that, during closing, cited slave-owning rapist Thomas Jefferson, played an animation for the jury based on erroneous assumptions, made racially coded accusations about Trayvon Martin emerging “out of the darkness,” and had the audacity to compare the case of the killing of an unarmed black teenager to siblings arguing over which one stole a cookie.

When Zimmerman was acquitted today, it wasn’t because he’s a so-called white Hispanic. He’s not. It’s because he abides by the logic of white supremacy, and was supported by a defense team—and a swath of society—that supports the lingering idea that some black men must occasionally be killed with impunity in order to keep society-at-large safe.

Media on the left, right and center have been fanning the flames of fear-mongering, speculating that people—and black people especially—will take to the streets. That fear-mongering represents a deep white anxiety about black bodies on the streets, and echoes Zimmerman’s fears: that black bodies on the street pose a public threat. But the real violence in those speculations, regardless of whether they prove to be true, is that it silences black anxiety. The anxiety that black men feel every time they walk outside the door—and the anxiety their loved ones feel for them as well. That white anxiety serves to conceal the real public threat: that a black man is killed every twenty-eight hours by a cop or vigilante.

 People will take to the streets, and with good reason. They’ll be there because they know that, yes, some people do always get away—and it tends to be those strapped with guns and the logic of white supremacy at their side.

See on Scoop.itTHE LAW & INJUSTICE

By Aura Bogado July 14, 2013 “Information Clearing House – “The Nation” — A jury has found George Zimmerman not guilty of all charges in connection to death of 17-year-old Trayvon Martin. But whil…

Aura Bogado writes about racial justice, Native rights, and immigration for The Nation. A former host and producer for Pacifica radio, her work has also been published in Mother JonesNewsweek Argentina, Colorlines.com and The Huffington Post. She is currently based in New York City


The story of Kenny Zulu Whitmore via @Thabo Mophiring

“…On Feb. 19, 1975, I was arrested on trumped up charges of two counts of armed robbery and rape of a female employee of a Zachary shoe store. Five days later, while being held over in the EBR Parish prison for arraignment and an evidentiary hearing on Feb. 24, 1975, between the hours of 12:30 a.m. and one o’clock a.m. – and mind you, this was my first time ever being in anything that serious – it happened.

First time in jail, one must fight or become something less than man. So while being in the dungeon on Feb. 24, 1975, I was awakened by the steel door being opened. It was already eight of us packed into this hole built for three at the most. And naked. Yes, they used to make you strip before going in there to promote homosexuality and to further humiliate you.

The door opened, air rushed in – momentary relief. The captain and a fat guy in a suit. In low voices guys were saying that’s Ossie Brown, the district attorney. I had heard of him, but didn’t know him from the first Adam.

“Whitmore. Whitmore.”


“Come out. Put on your clothing.”

“For what?”

“Whitmore, come forward now.”

I stepped out. Got my clothing. Black and white striped uniform and shorts.

I was led into the interrogation room. Just this guy and myself.

“My name is Ossie Brown. I am the district attorney of EBRP. You might have seen me on TV before.”


“Well, there are a few things that I want to discuss with you.”

Mind you, I had a lawyer at this time. I was represented by the Public Defenders’ Office.

D.A.: “I know you are charged with the robbery and rape that happened at Bill’s Shoe Store out in Zachary. And the victims say you are not the perpetrator. These charges will be dropped.”

I was starting to feel better. I was going home.

D.A.: “You knew who Marshall Bond was?”


“Marshall Bond, who was murdered at his farm out there in Zachary?”
Zulu’s close friendship with the Angola 3 and their having formed the core of the first prison chapter of the Black Panther Party, an empowering influence that strikes terror in the hearts of prison officials everywhere, is one reason he has been targeted for decades.

That question really threw me for a loop, because what does that have to do with this? Had I known then that this nightmare was being born, I would have run through that concrete and steel wall head first.

The D.A. had a confession already drawn up. He wanted me to turn state’s evidence on a guy he wanted to put this murder on. I didn’t know what state’s evidence was. He says: “I want you to take the stand against this guy and say what’s in this confession.”

I went crazy for real then. “I need my lawyer, guard. I want my lawyer, guard. Man, I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Whitmore, I am the district attorney. I am the only one who can help you. My word is three times that of yours. If I say you said something or did something, who are they going to believe: me or you?”

I said the truth. He said his truth.

“I will send you to Angola for the rest of your life. Do you know what they do in Angola, Whitmore? Sign this, and I will help you.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

The D.A. started to tell me things about me and my family that had me spooked. Where my mom and dad, brother and sister worked. The things I was involved in during integration. A fight that a friend and I had with a group of white boys in 1972. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that my family and I had been under observation. Yes, plain old COINTELPRO.

After his lengthy persuading, saying, “I am the only one who can help you; I will send you to Angola for the rest of your life if you do not do what I say,” D.A. Ossie Brown said: “I am going to step out for a while. I am going to send someone in to speak with you.”

This whole ordeal started between the hours of 12:30 a.m. and 1 a.m.

Three guys walked in in plain clothing: “We are with Mr. Brown’s office. And we understand that you are ready to cooperate with us. First we need you to sign this” – speaking of the confession.

“I am ready to go back to the hole. I need my lawyer.”

After the hollering, punch here, there. Chokeholds. Grabbing. I was finally taken out of the interrogation room and put into a holding tank – a big cell. This was at 4:00 in the morning, because right after that guys from all over the jail started to fill the tank. I asked someone: “Where is everybody going?” He said: “To court.” Court, huh.

A few minutes later breakfast came. The steel trays. Milk and coffee, pancakes, syrup and some pork. I drank the coffee and gave the rest away. Later when the trays were picked up, the guys were talking to their homies on different topics.

About 8 o’clock, guards with lots of handcuffs appeared. “All right, listen up. As I call your name, step out – two to a cuff.”

This is the reason why I have been saying that I was kidnapped out of East Baton Rouge Parish Prison, EBRPP.

Two plain clothes detectives appeared at the gate: “Whitmore, come forward. Hands behind your back.”

“Where am I going?” “Court. Turn around, hands behind your back.”

I was cuffed, taken down the hall, stepped out where everyone is being stacked into the patty wagon that looked like an armored car. This way, we went around the patty wagon to a car with no marking on it. I began to feel strange. They left the prison. The car went down Harden Boulevard – at the light, taking a right, not a left, that would take you to downtown Baton Rouge.

“Where are you taking me?” About 15 times. Then one of them said: “You should have done the right thing.”

I was taken to the police station in Zachary and put in a room – minutes later, to another building across the street from the bank and the Bonds’ family home. Then, a detective came in.

“Whitmore, Mr. Brown wants you to know are you ready to cooperate?”

“I want to talk with my lawyer. Let me call home. I need my lawyer.”

“You had your chance.”
Zulu and his good friend, Albert Woodfox of the Angola 3

A few minutes later, I was put back into the car, and was taken to the wooded area on Bond’s property. Cops, about eight to 10, the D.A. Ossie Brown, two guys off in the distance with dark glasses, jackets and jeans on.

The two detectives spoke with Ossie Brown. He came to the car. “Whitmore, are you ready to cooperate?”

“Get my lawyer. I want to see my lawyer.”

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid. Fact is, I was scared to death. Who knew where I was?

D.A. Ossie Brown said, “Get him out of the car.”

I was roughly pulled from the car. The D.A.: “Are you going to cooperate?”

“I need my lawyer.”

Ossie Brown turned away. Still cuffed, I was grabbed by the neck by one of the detectives from behind in a chokehold. The other one started beating me on my body.

The D.A. Ossie Brown: “Whitmore, are you ready to cooperate?”

“Why are you doing this? I need my lawyer. Take the cuffs off.”

The Bonds’ car came into sight. “Do you see that car?” the D.A. said. “You know who that is, don’t you? I can help you.” The D.A. said: “Stop the car.”

The cop behind me hit me directly in my spinal cord. I fell backward, and he applied a chokehold on me.

“Let him up,” D.A. Ossie Brown says. “You died trying to escape. Send the car on.”

“OK, OK. I will help. I need you to sign this.”

“I don’t know what it says.” A hit to the stomach. “I will tell you what it says.” “Man, I don’t know nothing about this.” D.A.: “Are you going to cooperate?”

I was cuffed, put back into the car and taken to a backroom in Zachary City Hall. Three guys come in. I was beaten some more, asked a million questions. That evening I was taken to a building in downtown Baton Rouge. This had been going on forever. I had not slept since leaving the dungeon at East Baton Rouge Parish Prison.

While in this room, still handcuffed, a cop put the phone to my ear. It was Ossie Brown’s voice, saying: “Whitmore. I am the only one who can help you. Sign that document.”

They kept questioning me. Hollering at me. Slapping me on the sides of my head and in my face.

This is how the so-called confession came about. The tape was spliced to get it to say what they wanted. This is why the audio was so poor. And they, my lawyer, the assistant D.A. and judge had to go into the judge’s chambers to make out what was being said. The judge told the jury, “It’s his voice,” but nothing was said that could help him.

About 7:15 p.m., I was taken to another building, called the Taylor Building, where they wanted me to take a lie-detector test. This was torture in every sense of the word. Deprived of sleep, food; hollering, shaking, beating, isolation – all of those tactics are considered torture.

Another phone call. D.A. Ossie Brown: “Whitmore, cooperate. I am the only one who can help you.”

“I need my lawyer.” I was being represented by Alton Moran of the Public Defenders’ Office.

I agreed to take the lie-detector test. I was asked what color blocks were, my name, my mom’s name. I jumped up, pulled the wires off of my hand, and went to grab the machine. Three of them bum-rushed me through the door and pinned me to the floor, cuffed me. “Man, fuck y’all.”

It was 8 p.m. when three cops took me over to the downtown jail on the top floor. The three signed a log book and time-in. They talked in low voices.

One of the cops at the desk said, “Come with me.” I was put in isolation right behind the desk. I was put in the hole, handcuffs removed. I was brought two sandwiches. I ate them and tried to go to sleep. But all night I was being woken up. “Whitmore, Whitmore, wake up.” “What?” He laughed and walked off. This went on all night.

Early the next morning I was taken to another building. The torture started up again. Until I broke down and said most of what they told me. And I signed that confession. They got what they wanted.

I was taken back to the downtown jail, put back into isolation, where I must have slept two and a half days.

The third or fourth day, the lawyer showed up. I told him everything. He got me moved to a regular cell. And asked me how the hell did this happen? He left, headed for the D.A.’s office, he said.

I stayed in that roach-infested old downtown jail for five months before being transferred back to the EBRPP.

In August 1975, at my evidentiary hearing on the two counts of armed robbery and the rape charge, they were all dismissed by Judge Elmo Lear, because both victims said I was not the man who committed the robbery and rape in that store, nor was I there when it happened.

Although the charges had been dismissed, I still could not go home with my mother, father, sister Jeanette, because of the Aug. 15, 1973, murder of the mayor.

Nearly one year later, on July 14, 1976, the evil empire struck. D.A. Ossie Brown made good on his word. That he could send me to Angola even if I were innocent. He filed a joint bill of information, accusing me and Perry Lee Payne of two counts of armed robbery of the very store both victims 11 months earlier said I did not commit. However, both victims picked my co-defendant out as the perpetrator.

On Sept. 27, our trial began on what was supposed to be two counts of robbery, but the whole trial and evidence was of rape. In three days of rape trial, my name never came up. My state lawyer objected and asked for a verdict (post-verdict judgment) of acquittal, because the trial was of Payne’s rape of the female victim. Denied.

Both victims again took the stand and cleared me of any crime. On Sept. 29, the jury deliberated, returned to the courtroom 20 minutes later to ask Judge John S. Covington how could I be charged or found guilty of anything, when I have not committed a crime? The judge went on this long outdrawn shit, confusing the jury.

I jumped up: “Your honor, you are confusing them.”

“Sit down! Order in my court, Mr. Whitmore. Sit down.”

My lawyer: “Kenny, Kenny, let me handle it.”

He made the objection. Overruled.

The jury went back to deliberate. But returned to the court about 15 minutes later. The judge asked, “What is it this time?” The foreman: “We do not understand. How can Whitmore be charged with anything?” The judge starts to read from a book. I raise my hand and tell my lawyer to object. He does. I ask the judge could he just tell the jury in plain language? No. The D.A. follows the jury to the jury-room door, hollering, “You better not find him not guilty, you hear me?”

The jury returned three minutes later for the third time and did as the judge instructed: You must find them both guilty. “We have a verdict, your honor.”

As to Perry Lee Payne: guilty on both counts. As to Kenny Whitmore: guilty on both counts.

Shortly thereafter, the court ordered a pre-sentence investigation report. On March 14, 1977, probation and parole agent James P. Patin submitted his report to the sentencing judge.

A pre-sentence investigation report is a background report into your life. From pre-school to the present. And the judge will base your sentencing range on that report and the seriousness of the crime.

This is my first conviction. I have never been in a “boys’ home,” “juvenile hall” or any of those places.

On April 15, 1977, Judge John S. Covington sentenced me on count 1 to 75 years without benefit of probation, parole or suspension of sentence. Count 2 he sentenced me to 50 years of hard labor, with the sentences to run consecutively. I was led off upstairs when my dad and sister asked the judge for 10 minutes to talk with me. A 125 year sentence for absolutely nothing.

It took me until 1985 when the 5th Circuit Court of Appeals granted me a hearing, and this is when I found out that the sentencing judge used the pre-sentence investigation report to sentence me by. The report was padded with false charges: It had me being charged with eight counts of armed robbery, two murders. It also gave me a juvenile record from age 12-16, saying I spent time in Juvenile Hall for theft, felony theft, a count of aggravated burglary for which I was placed in Juvenile Hall. My records were padded with all of that erroneous information. To make sure that my appeals would be denied. They have been.

I will not get a favorable decision. I did not, when I went before the state’s Pardon Board in 2000. My alleged criminal history was the only thing they wanted to talk about – and they did not want to hear that it was fabricated.

The Clerk of Court continues to tell me that the pre-sentence report and the witness and victim’s testimonies are under seal and that I cannot get them. These are issues that I continue to fight in court to this day.

On the 1973 robbery and murder of the mayor of Zachary, La., I went on trial on Jan. 3-6, 1977, for second-degree murder and armed robbery. The only evidence against me was a spliced partially audible so-called confession, and a rusty bucket. I have yet to find out what the bucket had to do with anything. It’s the bucket that the judge told the jury about, that on the inaudible part of the confession I said I took this bucket from the mayor’s farm after he was killed. And took it to a park. A recreational center. And that bucket was found in the exact same spot as I was alleged to have said. That was it. No other evidence.
Zulu back in the day

The jury deliberated for about an hour before returning a verdict of “guilty as charged.” Two of them voted to acquit me of all charges.

On March 14, 1977, I was sentenced to life on count 1 without the benefit of probation or parole or suspension of sentence for 20 years, meaning after 20 years I become eligible for parole; or the judge can suspend my sentence right now and resentence me to 20 years.

On count 2, armed robbery, I was sentenced to 99 years of hard labor. This sentence for the robbery is an illegal sentence, because it was used as the underlying felony to convict me of the murder.

I know from research that I can win a reversal of both of my sentences, but I will need counsel to do so. I have tried filing pro se, but anyone with any legal knowledge of the Louisiana judicial system knows that a pro se application is stamped “denied” no matter how grantable the application is. It’s like incarcerated individuals are punished for becoming knowledgeable of a system that binds us. I dare you with an 11th grade education to sit there in prison and point out constitutional violations that our system has denied. I am in grave need of assistance of counsel.

I arrived here at Louisiana State Plantation at Angola, La., in March 1978. Within an hour I was thrown into CCR: solitary confinement. I was placed on D-Tier, the so-called militant tier. I met and befriended some of the most righteous brothers in my life during those hellish years in this battlefield.

I became a member of the Angola Chapter of the Black Panther Party and in keeping with the spirit and ideology of the Panther Party, we did what we had to in order to perfect change. And in doing so, I went through a political education that I was not – and that I am still not – afraid to use in my everyday life here behind enemy lines. But as with juridical education, when one educates oneself politically on the plantation, one is punished because of one’s views of what daily hell is, or what rotten half-prepared food is, or what constitutes torture.

I say this is torture: Being held in this solitary confinement cage where I can stand in the middle of the floor, extend my arms, and touch both walls. For the last 34 years, 23 hours a day is by definition torture.

They say it is because of my political education, affiliation with the Angola 3 – Shaka, King and Chairman Hooks – and my ties to the Black Panther Party.

I say it is because of their white supremacy affiliation, and ties to the 1950s-1990s terrorist groups here in The Boot.

“In the fell clutch of circumstance / I have not winced, nor cried aloud, / Under the bludgeonings of chance / My head is bloody, but unbowed.” – from “Invictus” by William Ernest Henley

Forever, Zulu

Send our brother some love and light: Kenny Zulu Whitmore, 86468 – D/HAWK – 4L, Louisiana State Prison, Angola, LA 70712. A letter was written on Nov. 16 to U.N. Special Rapporteur on Torture Dr. Juan Mendez calling for an investigation of the torture Zulu endured in 1975. He has been behind enemy lines over 35 years

Re-blogged from: http://sfbayview.com/2012/racism-at-its-worst-the-story-of-kenny-zulu-whitmore/

MARIKANA (written transcript: day 8 Marikana Commission (5 Nov.2012)