The War At Home

By Harold Zvi Baranoff

Part of the United States strategy in Afghanistan involves changing the loyalties of the less ideological Taliban. The idea is that some, perhaps a significant number, can be convinced to switch to loyalties by the use of incentives. The term "Turning of Turbans" is being used to describe the change of perspective, focus and direction of an Afghan fighter.

The strategy certainly has merit. Generally, when possible, it is better to cut a deal than fight a long and UN winnable war. There are many examples worldwide where opposition forces, including obvious terrorists, have gained amnesty and have been integrated into government forces, their political wings becoming above ground political parties and their leaders entering into governing coalitions.

If we are willing to consider those sorts of options with the likes of the Taliban, certainly we should enter into negotiations much closer to home with an opposition force that is far less dangerous and one that is open to complete and completely peaceful reintegration now.

I speak of the Marijuana Underground which is a loose association of mostly non-ideological Americans who live in daily opposition to American law. Today millions of Americans are at some level of conflict with the American Legal System, since mere possession of any detectable amount of marijuana is a crime.

Close to 850,000 Americans were arrested last year on marijuana charges. That is approximately 3% of the population who have smoked marijuana in the last year. Tens of thousands of Americans sit in U.S. prisons on possession charges. In spite of the ongoing war on marijuana, no real dent has been made in the production, distribution, or consumption of this relatively harmless herb. The War on Marijuana is UN winnable.

As a prisoner in an American Federal Prison, I offer the following proposal in the name of the millions of Americans in the Marijuana Underground:
We are ready and willing to be fully integrated into the U.S. society at large. We offer our labors, our intellects and our financial resources. We commit to helping reverse global warming, end hunger, help make our cities safer, grow gardens, solarize houses, teach the children, care for the elderly, confront terrorism, improve medical care and reduce its costs, and pay our fair share of taxes while building new industries.

We are ready to serve and ask very little in return. We want to end the marijuana arrests and gain freedom and amnesty for marijuana prisoners. We are willing to do more than our share. We will be model citizens. It is time to end the War on Marijuana. We are quite willing to "Turn our Turbans" and do our part to help reunite the United States of America.

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http://war.change.org/actions/view/americans_in_the_marijuana_underground_policy_proposal

HE WALKED HOME by Zvi Baranoff © 2007

Morning comes early in jail. Not with sunshine and birds like a rural morning nor with commuter traffic and rushed coffee.

The lights snap on and the guard yells "Chow!" Prisoners echo the calls "Chow!" "Chow!"

120 men dress in orange uniforms and begin to line up. He rolls off his cot, steps into his orange pants and joins the line of hungry inmates.

The line moves slow. Some cut ahead. As each man approaches the front of the line, he gives the guard his last name. The guard crosses the name off a list and a trusty hands over a tray.

"Whadda you gonna give me off your tray?"

"Anything you man enuf to take!"

Breakfast. Grits. 3 slices of white bread. One hard boiled egg, some applesauce and a small carton of milk. Served on a plastic tray with a plastic spoon.

He takes his tray and finds a spot on the metal bench at the metal table.

He picks the shell from the egg. Methodically, with the plastic spoon he slices his egg into three equal parts, one for each piece of bread. Breakfast goes down quickly, each man still hungry, each tray emptied, cleared, returned.

120 prisoners back to their cots. The guards change shift. The inmates are counted. A new day has begun.

Eventually, the "yard" is opened for exercise. The yard is a concrete slab surrounded by high concrete walls. There's a pole with a backboard and basketball net.

Some go back to sleep. Some sit at the tables and play spades or dominoes. Some head to the yard. He heads to the yard.

Fifteen paces north. Twenty-two west. Fifteen paces south. Twenty-two paces east. Some lean against the wall striking poses and talking trash. Basketballs bounce and fly and swish the net or not. Jailhouse experts discuss legal fine points about why they will get off or why they should have gotten off.

Some men simply walk. Fifteen paces north. Twenty-two paces west. Fifteen south. Twenty-two paces east. Again fifteen north...

He walks and walks; arms moving and legs striving, passing the dawdlers, the pacers, those with nowhere to go.

"What's the hurry, man? There's nowhere to go."

"I'm walking home" he responds, keeping up the pace, rounding the yard.

Two men sit against a wall. They are a shade of gray you never see in the outside world. One sits with his shirt off, an eagle tattoo on his right arm, a dogeared paperback folded in his hands. The other gray man is reading a twenty year old National Geographic. They take no notice as he passes by.

Rounding the yard again he passes a group of young bloods in the corner. "What's up, Pops?" "I'm just walking home" he tells them. He moves on and the jitterbugs go back to trying to outdo each other with street corner bravado to mask their jailhouse apprehensions.

An airplane flies overhead. The sun rises above the eastern wall and begins to heat up the western end of the yard. He rounds the yard again passing the Preacher Man who walks slowly while reading the Scriptures.

The gray men are still sitting against the wall. The sun shinning on them permeates their gray not at all. They are now watching ants as the ants work at consuming a cockroach. He passes by once more at a fast pace.

Again he passes by the Preacher Man. "Amen! Thank you Jesus!" shouts Preacher Man. The Preacher is as passionate now pitching his brand of religion as he was passionate selling crack a few months ago.

A basketball bounces into his path. He catches the ball and tosses it at the basket. Not Bothering to see if the ball connects, he continues on his way.

On the next pass the gray ones are gone. Three men dark as night with rippling muscles and tattoos are doing push ups. They count their push ups by tens and by hundreds. It looks like they've done jailhouse push ups for years. It looks like they will be doing them for years. He walks past them, continuing on his way.

The jitterbugs have gotten over their bravado. They are now debating which snack cakes are best. Their bodies pose less as the day gets warmer. He nods at the young bloods as he walks on.

The basketball session takes on a more serious tone. Eight men play hard, sweat running down them. Charging, pushing, tauting, jumping. The sun bakes down and the bouncing ball thunders.

Two Mexicans have found a small bit of the remaining shade and are talking in Spanish. The muscle bound with the push ups have headed for the showers. The Preacher Man has a new apostle cornered for an impromptu lesson.

Sweat runs down his face and his legs ache, but he maintains a steady pace.

"You still walking, man?" he's asked.

"I'm on my way home," he answers.

"You gonna out walk your shoes," he's told.

"If they can't keep up, it's their problem," he responds as he slides on by.

Fifteen more paces north. Twenty-two paces west. Fifteen south. Twenty-two east. And onward he goes.

A cloud covers the sun and he walks on. The ache in his legs is now a throbbing and the sweat is now a steady stream. He's almost there, he thinks. He's almost there.

Birds fly overhead. Some perch on the telephones wires. One step after another, he walks on the side of the road. Cars blow by on the long stretch of highway. The sounds of the surf washing against the shore mingles with the wind blowing through the trees. And then he is in his neighborhood.

A rooster crows as he walks through the neighborhood. A dog laying in the shade of a large tree barks without much enthusiasm or conviction. Another rooster further away responds to the first.

He walks up the wooden steps of the yellow house, pauses at the top of the stairs on the wide wooden deck. A Guatemalan hammock is in it's place. Two palm trees are in planters on the deck, providing the hammock with some shade. Over sized wicker porch chairs sit by the door.

Flowers are growing in the boxes balanced on the white railing. "My wife has a green thumb," he thinks as he looks past the deck to the yard for just a minute. Then through the front door he goes.

The radio is playing, tuned to the oldies station. His wife is in the kitchen, tossing a salad. Something is baking in the oven. He breathes in the aroma, trying to guess at the seasonings.

"You look hot and tired sweetheart," says his wife. "Did you walk far today?"

"I've been walking a long time" he responds simply.

"Have some ice tea and sit awhile" she tells him. "Lunch is almost ready."

He pours himself some peppermint tea and plops himself into his favorite recliner. "It's good to be home," he thinks. "It's good to be home." He nods off into a pleasant nap.

A hand shakes his shoulder. "It's lunchtime Pops. You coming?"

"Chow! shouts the guard. He joins the others in line.

OurAppeal

The appeal was based on the probable cause for searching the vehicle is as follows
1. a bible in plain view
2. an angel bumper sticker on the bumper
3. the vehicle had a strong odor of a cleaning product (i.e.Simple Green).

Miami Spanish TV / Zvi 1996 Key West buyer's club

Medical Cannabis Advocates of Key West was in operation for over a year from 1995-96. We operated openly in an office across the street from the County Court House supplying 100 patients. A raid by Key West police shut down the club arresting Harold Baranoff and Jaime Levario, a patient. The charges were eventually dismissed.

BARBARA & ZVI in the Beginning

In 1986 Zvi and I started working together to help with publishing Green Action in Arizona.
( http://sedonagreens.org/AZGP%20History.html ) Green Action, an environmental newpaper  adopted the four pillars of the German Green Movement- Ecology (substainability), Social Justice, Grassroots Democracy, and Non Violence.

Much of what we have done is stories that will never be told, but I mention a few  here that we do take credit for... such as working with non-violence trainers who prepared activists for mass demonstrations at the Nevada test site and Rocky Flats New Mexico nuclear bomb production facility. Many peace groups and environmental whistle blowers were highlighted in Green Action news.

A main purpose of Green Action was for use as an organizing tool of the AZ Greens. We followed the lead of our predecessors, the German Greens. They are a group of self governing individuals who support the belief that hemp, marijuana was beneficial to our health and the environment. We took Green Action all over the United States and encouraged the growth of a National Green Party. Along the way we networked with groups such as NORML (National Organization for Reform of Marijuana Laws), MPP (Marijuana Policy Project), the Yippies with their flair of Marx Brothers theatrics, and many others.

Besides bundles of Green Action newspapers in the back of our old pickup truck, we carried many different things, including grapefruit from abandoned fields after farmers sold their AZ land to developers. This was donated to the food bank in Baltimore while we attended a peace conference one winter. At times we hauled cases of AZ dates, Hopi blue popcorn for wholesale around the country. Other times we carried cases of strawberry jam labeled 'Jam for Justice' from the Fayetteville Peace and Justice Center (Fayetteville AR), that we had gratefully received in a trade for our buttons and bumper stickers.

The stories are too numerous to keep track of over thousands of miles traveled in a relatively short period of time. Only after we settled in Key West did Zvi and I work with one specific target- to provide medical marijuana for the sick and dying.

MY TRUE LOVE © 2003

I found myself alone. I wanted to be.

I took care of myself. I healed my wounds and nourished my soul.

I regained my strength and began to live again.

I prayed for guidance from the Great Spirit.

I danced and burned sage under the full moon.

I must have pleased the Spirit.

I was sent a dream.

I was in a grassy flowering meadow surrounded by trees.

You came to me in the form of a white Trojan horse.

I was a black mare and we ran across the field in the sun.

You towered over me with statuesque presence.

Our journey began as we ran and played.

I awoke and you were there with all the faults of being human.

Your actions spoke of your mystical form.

Our world is multi-dimensional with many different meanings.

Together we win our battles for all.