The following article is published for Issue 43 of Critical Resistance’s cross-wall, bi-lingual newspaper The Abolitionist in a recurring column called “9971” by imprisoned writer Stevie Wilson. Issue 43 – entitled “Seeds through Concrete” featuring articles on censorship and repression – prints June 23, 2025 and is then mailed to thousands of imprisoned people for free in jails, detention centers and prisons across the US and some internationally. Supporters outside of cages can sign up for paid subscriptions that sponsor free subscriptions for prisoners. Print editions are limited, so subscribe today to receive your own print copy while some are still available. Match your subscription by donating to a mutual aid fund for Pennsylvania prisoners organizing through the autonomous abolitionist prisoner-led study groups also called “9971,” which this column and its author is in close partnership with. All donations go directly to imprisoned 9971 organizers.
Calculating Risks in the Belly of the Beast
By Stevie Wilson
For the 9971 Column of The Abolitionist Newspaper
Editors’ Note: The author mentions a revolutionary leader and imprisoned intellectual of the radical prisoner movement, George Lester Jackson. Because some departments of corrections use identification with this figure for gang validation and thus cause for political repression, so the editorial collective omitted this person’s full name and replaced it with his initials, GLJ, in the print edition of the paper going inside prisons. Long live George Jackson!
In February, I sat, excitedly, in front of the Parole Board. Twenty-seven months had passed since my last appearance and denial. After that hearing, I was told three factors would be considered at my next hearing: completion of prescribed programming, absence of misconduct reports, and the recommendation of the Department of Corrections (DOC). Since I had completed my programs, stayed misconduct-free, and received the DOC’s recommendation for parole, I was sure I would be released. But as soon as I sat down, I was accused of being part of a security threat group (STG)—a gang. I was told my institutional record said I belonged to an STG, namely “the abolitionists.” I was stunned. Was this a joke? When had abolition become a gang?
For over ten minutes, I debated a board member who had no clue what abolition is. I knew any chance of release upon parole was over. Slowly, it dawned on me that there never was any chance of my being released upon parole. No matter how many programs I had completed, misconducts I had avoided, or recommendations I had received, I was still a prison (dis)organizer, an antagonist of the prison industrial complex (PIC). For over ten years, I had been doing popular and political education and mutual aid work inside. I had been building relationships behind and across the walls. I had been shedding light on the most opaque and closed institution in the country: Prison. These acts would not go unpunished.
After the hearing, I was angry. At myself, mainly. How had I allowed myself to forget what could happen to imprisoned organizers and activists? How could I have fallen for the state’s false promises? In the past, whenever I was enduring retaliation and oppression from the state, I would turn to movement histories and biographies to gain perspective and encouragement. This time was no different. I reread the letters of George Lester Jackson. Year after year, parole was dangled in front of him. And no matter what he did, he was denied. I thought about Martin Sostre. He maxed out his first prison bid, 12 years, after repeated parole denials. His organizing and legal fights against the system were the reasons he was denied release. The PIC will use many tools to punish and deter imprisoned people from organizing and activism. The Angola Three, founders of a Black Panther chapter behind the walls, were not only framed for murder by prison officials, but also buried in solitary confinement for decades. Was I to expect anything different? Why would the state treat any imprisoned organizer differently?
The fact is that organizing behind the walls comes with great risks. We often talk about the barriers and challenges of organizing behind the walls, but we rarely talk about the very real risks involved. Parole denial is one such risk. But there are many others: solitary confinement, retaliatory transfers, destruction of property, being held incommunicado (no phone or mail), physical assault, sexual assault, and yes, even death. Imprisoned organizers must be aware of these risks. And so should our allies and comrades.
Imprisoned organizers should never be naive about how far the state will go to stop them from building collective power behind the walls. Grasping the reality of the terrain we are struggling in helps us better prepare, physically and mentally, for what the state will try to do to us. Knowing what imprisoned organizers are truly up against will better equip our allies when engaging in acts of solidarity. And solidarity is what every imprisoned organizer needs from outside allies.
“Imprisoned organizers should never be naive about how far the state will go to stop them from building collective power behind the walls. Grasping the reality of the terrain we are struggling in helps us better prepare, physically and mentally, for what the state will try to do to us. Knowing what imprisoned organizers are truly up against will better equip our allies when engaging in acts of solidarity. And solidarity is what every imprisoned organizer needs from outside allies.”
After learning about my parole hearing, I received an outpouring of support from friends and allies everywhere. Some of them even crafted a letter of reconsideration, an attempt to have the Parole Board change their decision. The outpouring of support emboldened me. Fortunately, I have less than a year until my max date. February was the last time I would have to sit before the Board. But there are many other imprisoned organizers and activists behind the walls, many with no date in sight. Each day, they risk punishment from the state. They put freedom and life on the line. And they need our support and solidarity. It is imperative that we get and stay connected to imprisoned organizers. It is imperative that we do whatever we can to mitigate the risks they face. It is imperative that we show up when the state moves against our comrades behind the walls.
From the very beginning of my organizing inside, I knew I would face retaliation from the state. When people ask me how I withstand the repression, I tell them: “Every fighter knows he or she will be hit. It comes with getting in the ring. So I expect to take some punches. But what keeps me in the fight is my corner. I have a great corner, a great support system, so I can go the distance.”
I am clear-eyed about the risks involved in organizing. And I have been hit quite a few times. And yet, I am going the distance. The support and solidarity I have received have mitigated those risks and enabled me to stay in the fight.
About the Author: Stevie Wilson is a Black, queer abolitionist who is writing, (dis)organizing, and building study groups and community behind the wall in Pennsylvania. A subscriber of The Abolitionist for a few years now, Stevie became a columnist of our newspaper in 2020. “9971” is his column focused on radical study for abolition named after a network of autonomous study groups behind the wall.