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5 hours ago
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George Simonson, 24, from London, had recently graduated in mechanical engineering from the University of Edinburgh when he was given a 24-month custodial sentence for climbing a gantry over the M25 in 2022. He was also found guilty of criminal damage and sentenced to a further six-week custodial sentence for spraying paint on a wall of Exeter University in 2023. He sent this letter from prison before he was released in January.
I remember the day I was sentenced like it was yesterday. I was filled with anxiety the entire time. It’s a strange situation to be in, not knowing whether or not you’d have your liberty at the end of the day, or for how long it might be taken away. My mind was racing and I had no idea how to operate.
At the moment the judge read out my sentence, I felt so many things at once. Sadness, strength and some relief, if I’m honest. Simply because the uncertainty was gone. I stood up and blew kisses to my family and partner who were sitting in the gallery. I wanted them to know that I was going to be OK.
But I didn’t look at the judge. I wanted those precious moments to be shared with the people I love. As I walked down to the court cells, my eyes filled with tears. I didn’t know when I’d see any of them next and I didn’t know what the next few months would bring.
My first few days in jail felt like weeks. It was the end of summer and it was something like 30 degrees at HMP Chelmsford. The heating was on constantly and the tiny windows offered no relief. The Olympics were on, so I and my co-defendant, who I was sharing with, spent our time watching and re-enacting the events in our hot, sweaty cell. I’ll always be grateful for his company during that time. It was the first time in prison for both of us so we were able to work through it together.
It took several weeks to sort out communication with my family. Several times my application forms would get lost or forgotten about by staff.
I was hungry a lot of the time, too: vegan options weren’t on the menu, so often I’d have digestive biscuits for dinner and eat my cereal with water rather than milk. I didn’t kick up too much of a fuss. I was new on the wing and I knew that prison wasn’t going to be particularly nice.
I was sustained by the belief that a better future is possible. I fought for it, and now, as a result, I’ve been sent to prison. But I wasn’t going to let the experience break me.
The action itself was over two years ago now. I remember many friends, family and even strangers were supportive, but some weren’t. One family friend told me that they would run me over if they were stuck in the traffic I caused. I understand their anger, and I just hope that one day they will understand why I chose to take this action – simply, I didn’t think there was any other option left.
The days here run on a rigid routine which changes only slightly between weekdays and weekends. In the week, we wake up at 7.30am. I listen to the radio while I eat my prison-issue breakfast and drink my coffee. We’re unlocked at 8.05am and I leave the wing after a pat-down from the guards. Thankfully, I’m in full-time work, so I spend much of the day fixing bicycles in the workshop for a charity. There is a two-hour break at lunchtime when we’re locked up again. After work in the afternoon, we’ll grab our dinners before going to the gym, which we can attend a few times per week. We aren’t allowed out into the yard during the week, so I only spend five to 10 minutes each day outside walking to and from work.
On the weekends, it’s a lot slower and loneliness often creeps in. I’ll have biscuits with my coffee for a treat. I play card games, write letters or watch TV in my cell. We all dread the weekend: Saturdays and Sundays feel longer than the working week.
If I was alone it would be so much worse, but the people I’ve met in here have given me so much strength and support. They’re friends that I’ll keep in contact with once I’m released.
I’m convinced that civil resistance works, and it’s absolutely justified when you’re fighting for the survival of the human race. I’d voted, signed petitions, written to my MP, attended marches … I tried all the conventional ways to make my voice heard like everyone else, but it didn’t change a thing. So I feel content with the choices I’ve taken. Ultimately, the action that I took did work: it played a part in getting the demands of no new oil and gas drilling into the Labour manifesto. And now it’s policy.
It angers me that politicians have known about global warming and climate change for decades. They’ve known that fossil fuels are causing it, and they’ve known that it’s going to kill, displace and starve millions of people. But they ignored it.
Our politicians are perfectly willing to lead when the country goes to war, but not when it comes to stopping emissions, which will save lives. In light of all of this, it was clear to me that civil resistance was the only option left. I didn’t do it for fun, for attention or for the sake of it. I did it because I knew that it could work. We’re taught about Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela and the suffragettes in school: they’re celebrated as heroes now. But nobody pays much attention to the fact that they were absolutely vilified by the government, the judiciary and the journalists at the time.
In the end I’ve done what I can, and a judge chose to send me to prison for it. I don’t blame him, and I don’t spend my time wishing things had gone differently. The whole experience has shaped me and made me who I am today.
You learn about society by seeing how people are treated in its prisons, and it’s an absolute mess in ours. This whole experience has deepened my understanding of our system and strengthened my conviction that change is desperately needed. Not reform – we need revolutionary change. The prison system is insanely broken – people here are not treated like human beings.
The entire apparatus is executed with maximum emphasis on punishment and a superficial mention of rehabilitation. Many people resort to smashing the contents of their cells or self-harming as a way to access the help that is available. It is absolutely no wonder that re-offending rates are so high when those leaving prison are in a worse way than when they came in.
And whatever stability people had in their lives before prison, whether it’s housing or employment, is ripped away when you step inside and there is minimal help to put things back together. Once you’ve received a prison sentence, it’s harder to get a mortgage, car insurance, or a job. How is any of this fair? This country has a huge problem and the evidence is hidden away behind razor wire and brick walls where nobody can see it.
I’m going to be released with extraordinarily broad licence conditions, with the purpose of stopping my involvement in “political activism”. Really, these conditions will mean that the probation service can pick and choose which elements of the political process I can be involved in. I’ve been told that I won’t be able to attend meetings of the Labour party, for example, or post anything to do with protesting on my social media, despite the fact that freedom of assembly and expression is protected by the European convention on human rights. Lack of cooperation results in imprisonment for the remainder of the sentence. In my case, that would be 19 months.
Before I got involved in civil resistance, I was so depressed. I buried my head in the sand because I felt so powerless in the face of it all. I was terrified about what the rest of my life would be like.
Looking at the positives, though, I’m going to come out of prison with a fresh appreciation for the things around me. I can’t wait to savour the things that gave me happiness. I took so much for granted before. Whether it’s walking in nature, listening to music, or spending time with my family and partner, I’m going to savour every minute. Even things like being able to use a toilet or shower in privacy and go to sleep knowing you won’t be woken up by a night guard. There’s a lot to settle back into, but I feel lucky that the day of my release is coming – something that many people in here don’t have.
