LITMIR.BIZ

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       Material Life

       Life’s Religion

       Isn’t It Odd?

       Spirit War

       Imprisonment

       Christian? Christ-like?

       Miracles

       The Faith of Slaves

       Hope

       Salt of the Earth

       Community

       Men of the Cloth

       Hate’s Unkind Counsel

       Human Beings

       The Spider

       The Fall

       Children

       The Creator

       Father Hunger

       Mother-loss

       Meeting with a Killer

       Dialogue

       Objectivity and the Media

       Violence

       God-talk on Phase II

       Meditations on the Cross

       Holiday Thoughts

       The Wisdom of John Africa

       Untitled (poem)

       More War for the Poor

       Of Becoming

       A Call to Action

       Interview with Mumia

       Appendix: Amnesty International: The Case of Mumia Abu-Jamal

       Endnotes

       About the Author

      TO THOSE

      nameless ones who came before

      and are no more,

      to those who leapt

      to dark, salty depths,

      to those who battled

      against all odds,

      to those who would give birth

      to gods,

      to those who would not yield—

      To those who came before,

      to those who are to come,

      I dedicate this shield.

       M.A.J.

      PREFACE TO THE 2020 EDITION

       Mumia Abu-Jamal

      Imagine knowing that you will soon die.

      Imagine not only knowing the exact date your life will end, but that you will die an unnatural death.

      Imagine knowing that you will be deliberately killed by the authorities of the state in which you live.

      Imagine, if you can, that you were shot by police, arrested, tortured, jailed, and sentenced to be executed as a result of court proceedings that Amnesty International declared were “in violation of minimum international standards that govern fair trial procedures and the use of the death penalty.”

      Imagine spending your last days alone inside a small prison cell in a hellish place called death row.

      What would you think about as the clock ticked down on you?

      What would you dream?

      What would you hope?

      How would you make sense of the things you heard, saw, and felt as the date of your execution neared?

      To read this book, one of my first literary endeavors, a generation after its tumultuous birth, is to experience the smells of fear, trepidation, and the genuine threat of execution that I lived with as a forced inhabitant of Pennsylvania’s death row.

      But against the canvas of unfreedom, death, and barbarity portrayed in the pages ahead, aspects of our humanity blossom into relief. Such is the intention of this book. For Death Blossoms is, above all, a meditation on the faith of the oppressed.

      Such faith may take many forms, but all are shaped and informed by resilience against oppression. It thus utilizes the voices, dreams, and poetics of the oppressed to imagine freedom. To understand that faith, we swim to the lowest depths of society and find, to our surprise, the beating of a multitude of hearts—the cris de cœur—of those sentenced to the nothingness of death row in all its awfulness and all its awesomeness.

      Who can forget the voices of those so consigned—people who sit for decades awaiting the state’s siren song to call them to surrender their last breath to the Grim Reaper? It is a forbidding task. A work of venturing to that City of Sighs that should, with a certain cruel justification, bear a legend etched into stone worthy of the inscription in the arch over Dante’s Gate of Hell: “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate”—“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

      It has been many long years and almost ten books since I lived in the crisp white pages of Death Blossoms. Around that time, I had come within thirteen days of an execution date, and would soon be given another exact date to die. I handwrote the pages of this book on three-ring-binder paper after meeting members of a remarkable group called the Bruderhof, a community located in the highlands of western Pennsylvania dedicated to the vision that “another life is possible”—a “love your neighbor, share everything” life “where there are no rich or poor. Where everyone is cared for, everyone belongs, and everyone can contribute.” The Bruderhof were, as refugees from Hitler’s Germany, anti-fascist, anti-racist, and deeply opposed to the death penalty. I found them intriguing. We conversed together about their ideas, and out of those conversations—and the sense that I might soon be killed by the state—grew Death Blossoms.

      Much has changed since that moment in time; but woefully, much has also remained the same. As of January 2019, 2,664 souls still languish on death row in the United States, 145 of them in Pennsylvania.

      Over the years, some who were sentenced to die have made the leap across the moat into real life: Freedom. Most of those have done well, but all have nightmares of their years on death row: its cacophony, its rank smells, its bits of sheer madness, its ever-present threat of violence.

      As I write these words, a lawsuit is making its way through the tunnels of the Pennsylvania judiciary seeking the abolition of the House of Death. But as it is now, more than 140 souls still languish in the twilight of death row. One man—Sug—was forced to wait eleven years—eleven years!—for a retrial. When it finally took place, the district attorney continued to argue for Sug’s execution, but a Philadelphia jury refused to send him back to the Row.

      Thus, the stories that originally populated the pages of Death Blossoms continue to bloom in dark, dank places. Souls weep, souls spin, souls creep fitfully toward the light. Souls sing, souls keen, and souls soar toward their highest and best selves, despite the obscenity of death row and its political architects.

      Death

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