Quick Hits (page 3)
DEA Raids a Reservation
By: MSNBC news
 He wasn't headed for jail, and has not been charged with a crime, but the raid last year was heartbreaking to him. It ended what had otherwise been a charmed attempt to grow a crop that would help White Plume, an Oglala Sioux, and his family supplant their meager income from raising horses, herding buffalo and offering pony rides.
Of course, White Plume was growing hemp the durable weed known in some forms as marijuana. All marijuana is hemp; not all hemp is marijuana, at least not in the psychotropic sense. So-called industrial hemp, which lacks pot's chemical potency, has been used for centuries in everything from clothing to lip balm.
Marijuana usually has at least 5 percent or more of the hallucinogen tetrahydrocannabinol (THC), but industrial hemp contains less than 1 percent far from enough to give even a mild high. And while marijuana remains illegal in most countries, the industrial hemp movement has gained momentum in recent years, especially in North America, though it's unclear how large a market exists for hemp products.
SUPPORT FROM STATES
Canada has begun licensing industrial hemp. State legislatures in 19 states, including agricultural centers like North Dakota and Minnesota, have compiled legislation backing industrial hemp. Hawaii now allows private hemp research, and former tobacco farmers in Kentucky successfully pushed the legislature and governor to pass a bill last March creating an Industrial Hemp Commission to regulate research.
Despite pressure from states, the federal government makes little distinction between industrial hemp and the potent variety. According to DEA officials, the Controlled Substances Act of 1970 bars not only marijuana but also THC so that all hemp, even varieties with only faint traces of the chemical, is considered illegal.
Federal authorities would not discuss the seizure on White Plume's land. (I can't make any comment, says Michelle Tapken, the U.S. Attorney for South Dakota.) Nor would the DEA discuss new regulations it says are in the works.
But when the DEA did another seizure this past July, it negotiated with White Plume in advance and came without guns pointed.
FIGHT FOR SOVEREIGNTY
The seizures at Pine Ridge were largely business as usual, except for one thing: The DEA flexed its muscle on a tribal reservation. For White Plume and others in the Oglala tribe, growing these plants has become a basic issue of tribal rights. Theis tribe, they argue, has a history with hemp and a right to uphold their traditions.
There's a word for the plant in the tribal language, which means it's got a history here that precedes contact with the Europeans, says Tom Ballanco, White Plume's attorney.
Indeed, White Plume says there is a single word wahupta for both hemp and marijuana. But he says he's not interested in growing the potent variety. Instead, he hopes to turn hemp into a cash crop, selling both the finished products and seeds to others eager to harvest a plant revered in past times for its versatility and its ability to endure harsh climates and gritty soil.
It was hemp's economic potential that drew White Plume's attention. He was impressed by the range of hemp products, usually imported from nations such as Canada and Germany, but the high prices of hemp items stunned him.
STRUGGLE AGAINST POVERTY
Pine Ridge could use the help. It is often described as one of the poorest places in the nation. The town of Manderson, White Plume's home, had a per capita income of just one-quarter of the U.S. average, according to the latest available census figures. Even the agricultural income of Shannon County, where Manderson is located, is dwarfed by most other counties in the state.
Tribal leaders acknowledge hemp could prove a valuable cash crop. They even claim to have grown it during World War II, ironically enough, as part of the federal government's "Hemp for Victory" program.
The tribal council passed a 1998 resolution allowing industrial hemp as a viable crop on the reservation. Those who want to farm it must register with the tribal government and test their crop to ensure that it contains less than 1 percent THC.
And the tribal government eagerly supports residents like White Plume who seek to capitalize on one of the few cheap, plentiful crops that grows readily in the area's hardscrabble ground.
"It grows wild here ... it's growing tall out there right now," says John Yellow Bird Steele, president of the Oglala Sioux tribe. "This is the government's protection of corporations such as the clothing industry, the paper industry."
TRIBES AND TREATIES
White Plume - either intentionally or inadvertently - has wandered into a legal thicket. Alex White Plume watches as this year's hemp crop is planted in April. Though he and his family have cultivated it, the plant also grows wild on the Pine Ridge reservation.
Tribal reservations don't function under the same laws as the rest of the nation; though the federal government reserves the right to enforce laws against major crimes from murder to drug trafficking, tribes largely retain authority to govern themselves. Just how law enforcement is divided between the federal and tribal government depends on the treaty between that tribe and the United States.
For White Plume's people, it was the Fort Laramie treaty of 1868. Like many treaties of the time, the Fort Laramie document actually encouraged the Oglala to take up farming as a way to end their nomadic travels across the plains. It gave each family the right to take up to 320 acres for farming, and promised free seeds and supplies.
Now that they've found a crop with potential to sustain them, the tribe argues, the government is hedging on the deal.
"That is the very kind of thing that the treaty was designed to encourage," says Frank Pommersheim, an expert on tribal law at the University of South Dakota. "Here they are being thwarted trying to engage in the very sort of act the federal government was trying to encourage at that time."
Treaties aren't set in stone - and the government already breached the Fort Laramie treaty so prospectors could search for gold in the stark Black Hills - but unless Congress passes a specific bill to change the way the treaty is applied, tribes usually set their local regulations. They were, for example, allowed to run gambling operations almost unchecked until Congress set strict limits in 1988.
On the other hand, the Supreme Court has ruled that the illegality of some drugs - peyote, in a noted 1990 case - trumps Indian rights to sovereignty and religious freedom.
TAKING A STAND
While growing marijuana at White Pine would likely be illegal, the unclear interpretation of drug laws as they apply to hemp - and the treaty's promotion of agriculture as a tribal way of life - offer White Plume and other tribal members good standing in court.
Because the tribe has endorsed hemp as a legitimate crop, federal authorities would have to clearly prove that the tribe's right to self-rule isn't as important as the drug laws' application to non-potent hemp.
"You have this conflict between what the native people say the treaty means and what the United States would say the treaty means," says Robert Porter, director of the Tribal Law and Government Center at the University of Kansas and the Seneca Nation's first attorney general. "It sounds like a classic setup for litigation."
White Plume is wary of going to federal court to fight a case about tribal lands. But seeing this as an issue of sovereignty - and in their minds, as another effort by the government to break its pledges - the tribe is preparing a suit of its own. Federal agencies may be following the letter of the law, but the Oglala consider this a personal assault by a government they feel has a history of betrayal.
"Even if they do win, what do they win that they beat down a tribe again?" asks Ballanco.
|
Growin' Our Own (page 3)
Busted in Tijuana
By: Anonymous
I was 19 at the time and a swing shift resin worker in San Juan Capistrano for Hobie Catamaran. It was a fun job, but it messed up your clothes. When I got to work I went to a huge roll of clear plastic, and cut off an apron and shoe sized pieces with the cutter hanging by twine. Then I taped the pieces over my clothes and tennis shoes. For the most part this would protect my clothes and shoes from splattering drops of resin. It was a well planned assembly line with rails built into the floor where the molds would slide to the next process. We had cloth cutters for the fiberglass and foam and coiled nose rope. We had the resin workers, like me, and then we had the hull pullers and metal assemblers. We all worked as a team. Our supervisor was Toby who sat near the ceiling in a small office watching our progress, leaving us alone for the most part, and handling the phones. If Hobie ever came around, which seemed like once a week during our shift, he was in nylon swim trunks. I remember one time he came in with a small group of Japanese men in business suits. Hobie was in his trunks and thongs only, a real cool guy, showing them around. He was a great millionaire to work for, and we all took pride in our work. The hull pullers had the most satisfying job, and we would all stand around when the hull was ready to be torqued out of it's black mold. After the coiled nylon rope had catalyzed as far as it could, the puller took a crowbar and pried the hull out of the mold. If the hull separated from itself instead of the mold it obviously was no good. This was the physical test of our combined work. Sometimes we would take turns being the hull puller, as we all wanted to be assured that our work had been done to Hobie's standards. I can't tell you how disappointed we all were if we separated a hull during this perhaps crude test of our work. We put out about 14 hulls and decks a shift.
To Mexico
Anyway, I got off work one night and was picked up by two friends for a pre-arranged trip to Ensenada. One man was about 8 years older than me, and the other was my age. The older man was from Torreon, Mexico, and had married a woman here in the states. He had an older gray Mercedes, which I entered into the back seat. We exchanged our greetings as he pulled out of Hobie's parking lot. Right away the Mexican lit up a number, and began laughing as he barreled down the freeway towards Tijuana, our point of entry into Mexico. The trip went by fast, as he decided to stop in TJ, on our way south to Ensenada. He pulled into the Ward's parking lot on Revolucion Boulevard, and parked his car. We walked south down Revolucion, and my classmate saw an old, silver aluminum Airstream trailer with a rectangular window cut out of the side, and used for a counter. A big sign hung across it's side announcing Lemonade for sale. He said: "I'm getting some lemonade over here." We all walked over to the trailer, where he placed his order. I passed as I knew it was made from the local water and I didn't want to chance getting the 'touristas' or Montezuma's revenge. As I was looking around at the 2 a.m. action our friend and driver Juan said: "Take a hit of this." I recovered from my night dreaming, and saw him offering me a small smoking roach, which he had accepted from a taxi driver. The taxi driver looked like a homeless person, as he leaned against the end of the trailer. He was about 45, with giant rings or coils of sagging skin hanging below each eye. I said no thanks, and then heard the high pitched squeal of tires heading towards us. As I instinctively moved back towards Revolucion, I turned to see a 1960 white Ford Falcon station wagon, completing a 'U' turn from across the street where it apparently had been parked. I quickly moved on into the bustling crowd and figured that I would shortly meet up with my friends. As I was about a quarter way down the crowded sidewalk, I saw two men wearing white Patron shirts and slacks, running in the street, just outside the line of parked cars. They were both yelling, and I hoped they weren't yelling at me. I stepped up my power walk to a zigzag run in between the people on the sidewalk. As I reached the end of the block, I already knew these two guys were after me. I wondered if they were bandits, working with the Mexican taxi cab driver, who had been smoking the roach.
Would we end up stripped of our clothes and left out in the desert? Hey, I'll admit it I was very worried. The men now in front of me were giving me some orders, and pointing small spray cans at me. I figured the only way out of this was to raise my hands high above my head and attract the attention of some local Tijuana cop. However, unfortunately, I made it all the way down the block and back to the station wagon without seeing a local cop. No help from anybody. I could see my two friends in the back seat and a large older man behind the steering wheel with a long haired man as his passenger. The back door was opened for me, and I looked one last time at my pursuers to see if this was really happening. The desert for sure I thought, as I slid along side a friend. All of this because Juan wanted to stop in TJ. The passenger in front moved to the back seat next to me, and my pursuers got in front next to the driver, who I realized was wearing a gray business suit. I asked my friends if we were being robbed, and I got my answer from the stranger next to me. He introduced himself as being from North Carolina and said: "No you're just like me. You just got busted by the Tijuana undercover Police." I was shocked to say the very least and felt like I had the touristas without drinking the local water. I had heard all the rumors about Mexican jails and prisons, you know where you get to talk to the American Consulate in about three to four months and get out in a few years. They put you in a big bull arena with all the dirty murderers, child molesters, and other violent animals, (who were formerly human beings) who want to turn you into their bitch. My ass was already hurting.
Our well dressed driver began speaking in perfect English, as he drove away. He said: "We're the Police and we watched you trying to buy drugs from the taxi driver. We're taking you to the station for processing your arrests." I asked if he was really taking us to the station or the desert to rob us. He again calmly assured me he was the local Police. Except for the heroine addict from North Carolina, we were all quiet. The drive was very short, and we exited in front of a two story building. On the left there was a long glass window over a counter, like the ticket station at your local movie theater. The glass had small circles cut out of it, and matching slits below each spaced circle. Except for the uniformed police officer it was like going to buy your ticket at the movies. We passed this as if it didn't exist, entered the main doors and climbed the stairs,into a dimly lit room. This looked like a scene out of a French Foreign Legion movie. There was a counter or bar across the room and about five or six guys in uniforms drinking coffee, beer, tequila, or whatever. I saw the bottles. They all looked unshaven with open collars and depressed, as they sat quietly drinking at the small round tables. It looked more like a bar than a police station. We went down the hall which ended in another long white tiled hall containing only one toilet about 12 feet from it's entry door. There was used toilet paper piled about 3 feet high inside this tiled 4' x 12' hall-like bathroom. I was feeling very sick as we abruptly turned right into a side door next to the toilet hall. We entered a secretary area with a desk, where Juan was separated from us into another room to our left. We went straight into a room which had three dirty pin striped cloth mattresses laying on the wooden floor. The dirty cloth was partially worn away from all these black rubber air mattresses revealing the makers brand name, Firestone. I wondered what century these mattresses had been made in as I'd never seen anything like these in my life. We were ordered to strip naked, which I took my time doing, when I heard yelling from another room. Our two new guards were looking through a small, two way mirror. I realized they were looking into the room where Juan had been isolated. I tried to look, and, as our guards moved away from their satisfied curiosity, I was able to see Juan who was wearing a large burgundy color bruise on the whole side of his face. He was hovering in the air over a cheap brown vinyl couch with his feet still on the floor. He was suspended by his shirt which was being held by the biggest Mexican man I've ever seen. Except for our well dressed, huge and older driver, all these guards were new comers. The obviously strong Mexican holding Juan up in the air from his formerly seated position on the couch, landed one hard punch to Juan's face, in the same location as the bruise, which turned into a blood red color. Juan cried out in pain, and was visibly scared for his life. As I turned I saw my pants on one of the Firestone rubber mattresses, with the pockets turned inside out and the contents of my wallet, including my $12.00 and change, all laid out. I knew it. It was a robbery. Not one occurring in the desert, but in a police station. As we were ordered to get dressed we were allowed to redeposit our money and other few possessions into our pockets. I was taken to the secretary's office and questioned by our driver about why I was buying drugs, which I flatly denied. Then coil eyes, the taxi driver, came in without any guard and his hands were behind him as if he were handcuffed. He was asked if he could identify me. He said: "Si, this is one of them." He entered each room, made the same positive identification, and then left unescorted. When he turned towards Juan's room I noticed he was not handcuffed. What an act. A set up, I thought to my sickened self. This must be the twilight zone, I thought, I finally found it and I didn't like it. The policeman driver, told me: "You better confess before the Federales get here, as they won't be so nice." I asked if I could go throw up in the toilet hall and he had a guard take me the few steps to accomplish this necessity. It was so dirty and smelly that it hastened my duty. The older man had not left, and was waiting for my return. He said: "You seem the most sensible out of your friends. Just tell me what type of car Juan was driving, where he parked it, and I will let you go."
I was maybe catching on. I immediately assumed they wanted Juan's car, and after they got it, they would put us in the bullring with all the hardened prisoners. I told him: "I don't know. I was hitchhiking and they picked me up. It was about midnight and I just saw bright headlights. It turned out that I knew these guys, and they invited me down here to go to bars and find some women, which I now realize was a big mistake."
He again cooly said: "I'll let you go if you can give me this information." I again stuck to my story, which I figured would be somewhat similar to the other two stories. Then I remembered something. I pulled a business card out of my pocket, and showed it to my interrogator. He looked at it and said: "So?" The card was one of Governor Ronald Reagan's business cards. It was real, as I had picked it up in some state building. I told him: "This is my uncle's card, and I would like to use a telephone to get out of here." He was so calm. He replied: "Your uncle would be proud of me for stopping your drug habit. He would probably give me a reward. I tell you what, I really don't think you had anything to do with this, but I do need your cooperation. Come with me." I followed this extremely self assured man into the room where Juan had been beaten.
Juan was on the couch, laying on his side giving up muffled moans, and my classmate was there too. I looked around the room soaking in all of its contents and qualities. It was completely paneled in a golden brown knotty pine, had a large desk, and a dark brown wooden post coat and hat stand in the far right corner. Above the stand was a hole in the paneling where a knot fell out. The hole had bailing wire shoved into it, probably to keep the rats out, I thought. Finally my eyes rested on a framed black and white glossy photo of a man in a police uniform, and cap. As my twilight zone, unbelieving eyes focused on the face in the photo, I realized it was the well dressed older police driver, who had been telling me he was on my side. He was the Chief of Police for all of Tijuana, Mexico.
The Chief, or 'JEFE' as he was called by all his people, then said to all of us: "I would consider having you pay a fine of one thousand each." He knew we only had about $600. between us and my friend immediately offered to pay a fine of $100. for each of us. The clean shaven Chief nudged his chin between his thumb and index finger, and began rubbing. He ended his silence by a simple, perfect, and welcomed response of: "O.K." I was elated, quickly forgetting my sickness as my friend pulled out his money and counted out exactly $300. He said: "O.K., here's the $300, but before I give it to you I want you to know I worked my balls off down to here to earn this money" as he motioned his hand down towards his knees.
The next thing I knew I was grabbed from behind and lifted off the wooden floor. The Mexican who had been torturing Juan had grabbed me from behind and was carrying my six foot frame like a sack of light weight flour and towards the doorway where the Chief had been standing. He moved me into the secretary's office, which had been my involuntary prison for about two hours. The Chief had stopped and turned, and when I was able, my finger tips grabbed the bottom of his gray jacket, and gave a very gentle and respectful tug. I sincerely told him: "My friend is upset. He's not being disrespectful, and he just wants you to know how hard he works for his money. He's no drug dealer. I promise you I will pay him back his $300 for all of us if you will only accept his money as payment of your fine." He again rubbed his chin in silent contemplation or as some part of his act. He then reached into his pocket, where he retrieved about a three inch folded wad of hundred dollar bills. He said: "Do you really think I need your money? I don't need it. But if you'll pay him back, I'll accept the fine and you are free to go."
In total silence the money was paid to and accepted by the police Chief. We all knew better than to ask the Chief of Police for a receipt, or to say anything. He was God over us and he played his part well. There was never any police report written about this incident or our release. We knew that when the Chief held out his hand accepting my friend's cash, we were released. We made our way down the stairs and out of the simple money making police compound. We moved silently into the darkness, and I wondered about the strange freedom of this third world country and our narrow escape from JEFE.
Pot Party in a San Francisco Law Office
By: Anonymous
At one time in my life I was involved with a really inside group of highly respected people. I got invited to a party at a Law Office on Eddy Street in San Francisco.
I arrived when it was dark and I located the office which had a line of people in assorted attire, and looked like a typical line outside of a nightclub. Men wore suits and ties, others were adorned in colorful tie dye shirts and the ladies were wearing tie dye and hippy style clothes, or more formal dresses. As I entered I heard eastern music and went upstairs.
There were three beautiful belly dancers, entertaining an immediate circle of people. I just looked and wondered around, smoking a joint. I ran into a friend or two, and smoked and wondered how far out this party was for a group of attorneys to host. Everybody seemed like they were smoking.
I went to the back near the stairs and saw a large vertical black sign with protruding pink neon lights. This was above the stairs on the wall. It only had five pink neon letters which read, DRUGS. As I walked back into the main area, I was introduced to a well dressed black man in a dark suit and tie. He had dark sunglasses on and I wondered how he could possibly see in the dimly lit room. He was introduced as an advance man for the politician, Willie Brown.
Apparently Politician Brown was still outside in his limousine deciding whether or not to come inside. Still puffing on a joint I wondered if I should be doing this in front of this man. As if my thoughts had been read, my friend told me: He's cool. Next there was a man about ten feet ahead of me wearing a buckskin color, crew type jacket, and lighter long sleeve shirt. He approached my friend, and as I was puffing on the joint, he was introduced to me, as Sheriff Dick Hongisto, the Sheriff of San Francisco County. I had to lower the joint from my lips, and move it from my right hand to my left, so I could shake hands with the politely outreached hand of the Sheriff. My friend belatedly said: He's cool too.
I puffed on and had a nice chat with the Sheriff. I thought, where other than a Law Office in San Francisco, could a person have a free zone where busts and personal lifestyles were off limits.
I went back to watch the belly dancers, where I slipped a $5.00 bill into a scanty panty.
Oh yeah, I never did see Willie Brown, so I don't know if he decided to come in.
|
Pipeline (page 3)
Government is a Terrible Master
By: Steve Kubby
 Everyone's talking about terrorism these days, but my family and I have experienced terrorism up close and personal. We survived our terrorist attack and, in the process, we learned a great deal about how state-sponsored terrorism actually operates in America today.
In our case, our home was invaded early in the morning. We were robbed at gunpoint and then kidnapped. These terrorists even tried, though unsuccessfully, to extort $200,000 ( in bail ) from us. Worst of all, these terrorists had badges, and were empowered by laws that were originally passed to be used against "drug lords." Despite the fact that we were lawfully exercising rights granted to us by a medical marijuana law we helped to pass, we found ourselves facing 19 criminal counts.
After two and a half years and a quarter of a million dollars in legal expenses, a jury acquitted us and we regained our freedom, but little else. Even though we had proved our innocence, none of the terrorists involved were ever punished for this illegal raid, nor was any of the property stolen from us returned, not even the data off of our computers. But we survived and sought an escape from such terror in the freedom and wildness of British Columbia.
From the safety of Canada, we now watch in horror as America's police and military are handed the keys to the country. Because of our experience with "drug lord" laws being used against our family, we understand that, with the passage of the "U.S.A. Act," the Constitution has effectively been suspended and martial law imposed.
Our leaders assure us that Congress is standing up to terrorists by passing this law, but just the opposite is true. Congress is refusing to stand up for the freedom and rights that are the heritage of all Americans. Congress is failing to use its constitutional power ( and fulfill its constitutional obligation ) to check and balance the other branches of government. Cowering before the police, the military and public hysteria, Congress is bartering away our rights.
The USA Act may be the greatest act of appeasement since Chamberlain waved a piece of paper in the air and told the British they were safe from Hitler. Congress has just handed over unprecedented and unconstitutional powers to the police. Have we forgotten that these are the same police who just a few months ago were making headlines for violating human rights, profiling minorities, placing a third of black males under the control of the criminal justice system, and planting guns and drugs on innocent young men in Los Angeles?
No one has the right to barter away rights guaranteed by the Constitution. Yes, it's horrific that 5,000 innocent people were so brutally slaughtered on Sept. 11. But what about the hundreds of thousands of brave American patriots who willingly gave their lives to defend the guarantee of inalienable rights? Who will speak up on behalf of these brave patriots who paid the ultimate price to preserve our heritage of freedom?
The American patriots that created and bravely defended our Constitution and Bill of Rights deserve to be heard. If they were alive today, they would be outraged.
Benjamin Franklin would remind us: "They that can give up essential liberty to gain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety," and, "Wherever liberty dwells, there be my country."
Wise old Thomas Jefferson would then raise his voice and with calm firmness explain that rights are indivisible and can never be separated from us by any law or government. "A free people [claim] their rights as derived from the laws of nature, and not as the gift of their chief magistrate."
Then a hush would fill the air, as everyone turned and faced the great general and first president, George Washington. The assembled patriots would all show their deeply-held respect for Washington, an American legend, whose death inspired the proclamation, "First in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen!"
The founding father of the United States of America would then speak directly to every citizen in America and repeat the warnings he issued upon leaving the White House: "Over grown military establishments are under any form of government inauspicious to liberty, and are to be regarded as particularly hostile to republican liberty ... Government is not reason. It is not eloquence. It is a force, like fire: a dangerous servant and a terrible master."
(Steve was the 1998 Libertarian candidate for Governor of California and a main supporter and proponent of California's Proposition 215.)
|
