Saturday, July 04, 2026

UK

Source: Declassified UK

“Other than hexing the man, I really wasn’t surprised”.

This is how Leona Kamio, known as Ellie, describes what was going through her mind when a judge announced she would be sentenced as a terrorist alongside three co-defendants earlier this month.

Kamio, a 30-year-old nursery teacher, had been convicted of criminal damage in connection with a Palestine Action raid on an Israeli arms firm in Filton, Bristol, in August 2024.

The jury that tried her had not been informed that any convictions could later carry a “terrorism connection”, she tells Declassified from Bronzefield prison in her first interview since being convicted.

During that trial, the defendants were also not allowed to explain why they targeted Elbit Systems or even say the word “genocide”, stripping the action of all context.

Kamio and her three co-defendants, Charlotte Head, Fatema Zainab Rajwani, and Samuel Corner, have now been sentenced to a combined total of more than 25 years in prison. Two others, Zoe Rogers and Jordan Devlin, were found not guilty.

In the morning before the sentencing hearing, Kamio felt that the judge, Mr Justice Johnson, already “had pre-written a crazy sentence”. 

The “terrorism connection”, says Kamio, means the activists will serve at least two-thirds of their prison sentences, though it is “likely we’ll have to sit out the whole five-year term”.

In prison, she adds, “they’ve introduced a vetting process for us, which means we are only allowed to have contact with 20 people on the outside. That includes phone calls, visits, email and post”.

The goal of this, Kamio says, “is to make us feel isolated and cut off from the world”. 

The four activists will also be “heavily surveilled in both prison and on release where we will have to be on notification to the police for 15 years and remain on a terrorist register”.

Does she feel let down by the British criminal justice system?

“On a surface level, yes”, Kamio says. “As a person who had never had any interaction with the law or known anyone who had, and thinking it would be fair, I felt let down”.

But, she added, “having been incarcerated now for almost two years across different prisons in the country and having met so many people inside those prisons, I would actually say that the criminal system is working exactly as it was intended to: to protect people in power”.

‘The drones must be silent’

The sentencing hearing at Woolwich Crown Court saw the prosecution submit evidence at the “59th minute of the 11th hour” regarding damage costs associated with the raid.

That evidence, based on an insurance report, said the raid had caused more than £1.2m of damage, including to 40 military assets such as military drones and unnamed “drone systems”.

Defence lawyers said they were given no time to review the new evidence and admitting it so late would amount to “a gross affront to the integrity of the criminal justice system”.

Justice Johnson admitted it anyway.

Why did the prosecution not serve this evidence during the trial?

“If these weapons were put in front of a jury, it would have given us the opportunity to talk about the disgusting weapons that Elbit actually makes and what they do to Palestinians”, Kamio says.

“And the prosecution didn’t want that, because who in their right mind would choose the side of Elbit when they hear about a drone that lures civilians out into the open with the sounds of crying children so they can be shot”, she adds.

After the sentencing was handed down, Kamio recited part of a poem by Palestinian author Marwan Makhoul while being led out of the courtroom, saying: “In order to hear the birds, the drones must be silent”.

Family members in the public gallery looked on crying, while some of them banged on the windows.

“The line I quoted is a reminder of why we did what we did”, Kamio says. “It’s also a reminder that Palestinians and the land of Palestine itself will always be there, will always persevere, that one day the drones will stop. We have to act with that in mind, as if liberation is possible”.

‘Political pawns’

Three days after Kamio and her co-defendants were sentenced, the Court of Appeal upheld the government’s proscription of Palestine Action as a terrorist organisation.

In that ruling, Lady Chief Justice Baroness Carr tried to set Palestine Action outside of Britain’s “long and honourable history of civil disobedience”, suggesting the group was little like the Suffragettes, who she falsely claimed operated “in the open”.

An alleged threat to “national security” was also emphasised in the ruling, despite the Home Office barely mentioning that issue in its open evidence for justifying proscription.

Palestine Action’s co-founder Huda Ammori has said she will challenge the ruling at the Supreme Court and, if necessary, at the European Court of Human Rights.

Even before the Filton incident, the UK government was considering banning Palestine Action, recent disclosure of official documents show.

The Filton raid, some suspect, was consequently categorised as “terrorism” in order to build the case for the proscription of Palestine Action as a whole.

Defence counsel argued that the initial charges against the first Filton activists under the Terrorism Act were changed to a “terrorism connection” under the Sentencing Act in order to prevent the jury from having to contend with the “terrorism” issue altogether. 

If the jurors had been instructed to try the defendants on terror charges, the lawyers argued, they may not have arrived at the verdict that they did.

“They needed to secure some [terrorism] arrests and convictions for people taking direct action… before they could proscribe Palestine Action”, says Kamio.

“We have been used as political pawns in this stitch-up against Palestine Action. If anybody doubts this, then just listen to the two judgments passed down by Judge Johnson and Judge Carr… The language is so similar that they mimic one another. They’re not even trying to hide it”, she adds.

‘Good riddance’

A lot has happened in British politics since Kamio and her co-defendants were sentenced as terrorists earlier this month.

UK prime minister Keir Starmer announced his resignation following the by-election victory of Andy Burnham in Makerfield. Burnham now looks poised to become Britain’s seventh prime minister in just ten years.

Does Kamio have any parting words for Starmer, whose government has overseen a brutal crackdown on the pro-Palestine movement in Britain?

“Good riddance, you cosplaying Tory”, she says. But Kamio is also “not hopeful” about the prospects for a Burnham premiership.

“That’s why it’s fucking hilarious that the terrorism connection in our case was based on the accusation that we were trying to influence the government; we made it very clear that we knew that we could never influence a British government because the establishment just doesn’t care”, she declares. “So, no, I don’t have faith in the government, but I do have faith in people”.

What is Kamio’s message for people on the outside?

“Whatever you feel reading this – outrage, disbelief – rather than sitting in despair with it, channel it into doing something meaningful”, she declares.

Kamio continues: “They can’t carry on doing something that the majority of Britain doesn’t agree with, and the majority of people are pro-Palestine. My barrister said there are often times when the criminal justice system and the law are a bit behind the people, and I think this is true this time, and unfortunately, I’m in the middle of it”.

But, she adds, “that’s ok – because I do have faith that something good has to come out of all this”.


This article was originally published by Declassified UK; please consider supporting the original publication, and read the original version at the link above.Email

John McEvoy is Chief Reporter for Declassified UK. John is an historian and filmmaker whose work focuses on British foreign policy and Latin America. His PhD was on Britain’s Secret Wars in Colombia between 1948 and 2009, and he is currently working on a documentary about Britain’s role in the rise of Augusto Pinochet.

An Intimate Reckoning With the Weather Underground

Source: Waging Nonviolence

Looking for a quintessentially American book to read this 4th of July? 

As we celebrate and/or mourn the 250th birthday of the most militarized, most violent, (almost) most corrupt, most polluting, most inequitable and most sad nation on the face of the Earth, I am reading “Dangerous, Dirty, Violent and Young: A Fugitive Family in the Revolutionary Underground.” Zayd Ayers Dohrn’s new book about his Weatherman parents is more than just a great beach read (which it also is, literally). It is the most appropriate book to read instead of subjecting yourself to a PTSD-triggering fireworks display.

It chronicles a small group of revolutionaries who used dynamite, bombs and guns to blow up buildings, statutes and police cars, break people out of prison and generally make mayhem half a century ago. But it is not just history to view on the page. It says so much to our MAGA moment.

It is a story of history, conscience and memory at a time of AI slop, official lies and active amnesia. It is a story of youthful rebellion against the Vietnam War that matures into revolutionary sabotage, political violence and life “underground” that eventually settles into careers in education and law outside of the mainstream. It is the story of surviving some of the most harrowing political moments of the last half century. It is a story of a family.

I grew up in a very different corner of the left than Ayers Dohrn. There were no drug-fueled orgies, shootouts with the cops or days of rage in the Catholic left. But there was a similar stridency, urgency and seriousness about my family life. There was jail and prison and fear of FBI infiltration and dirty tricks. There were people with no last names who showed up for a meal or a night and headed back into the underground. We also survived separation and secrecy, and I am also not raising my children on the knife’s edge of the revolution. So, Ayers Dohrn’s effort to tell his family’s story with truthfulness, curiosity and distance landed so very true for me. 

Don’t need a weatherman to know

Who were the Weathermen? They’ve been memorialized countless times on screens small and large, most recently (sort of) in “One Battle After Another.” But in real life, they were mostly white, mostly college educated, mostly middle-class young people who had been part of Students for a Democratic Society, or SDS, before splintering off from that group in the summer of 1969 to join forces with the Black Panthers and incite revolution, laying waste to what they left behind. They felt like they had tried everything else!

In recounting this episode, Ayers Dohrn was able to use FBI notes and communiques to highlight their role in fomenting the clash between the more progressive and radical factions, manipulating members into all-out conflict with one another and essentially destroying SDS. Ayers Dohrn quotes Weatherman faction leader Mark Rudd reflecting that it was “the single greatest mistake I’ve made in my life … scuttl[ing] America’s largest radical organization — with chapters on hundreds of campus[es], a powerful national identity and enormous growth potential — for a fantasy of revolutionary urban guerrilla warfare.” What could have been is not explored.

At this point, we’d need speculative fiction to spin out the possibilities of true solidarity between the largely white, campus-based antiwar movement and the Black Panther Party and its affiliates. It sure scared the FBI! In fact, in a memo to agents in the field, FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover wrote that SDS and the Black Panther Party working together would “pose a formidable threat. … It would be a definite advantage if these two groups were alienated.”

This story is told with cinematic depth, gleaned from Ayers Dohrn’s interviews with participants and from declassified FBI files. The new organization was small, secretive and “fiercely committed to following the leadership of the Black vanguard, to fighting the police and to going out, if necessary, in a blaze of revolutionary glory.”

A declaration of a state of war

The mostly middle-class, young, white activists had been working on many fronts for years, but their “organizing and peaceful protest had failed to stop the war.” They were going to try something new — but actually it wasn’t new. It was old. It was violence. And, for a time, it was street riots against the police and property damage during protests. But then their friend and Black Panther leader Fred Hampton was assassinated by Chicago police and the FBI in a barrage of 90 bullets. And then the horrors of the My Lai massacre were revealed, and as 1969 became 1970, the Weathermen declared war on the United States.

An FBI wanted poster for Bill Ayers. (FBI)

Ayers Dohrn describes a series of bombings at the homes of judges, banks and police stations, and a complicated plan in New York City’s West Village that would have brought the carnage of Vietnam to a military Officer’s Ball at Fort Dix in New Jersey. The Fort Dix plan was thwarted not by the FBI or a rival faction of revolutionaries, but by chemistry. The bombs went off in the 11th Street townhouse the revolutionaries were using as a temporary safe house (while the parents of one of the Weathermen were on a St. Kitts vacation). Three Weathermen were killed in the blast and the house was obliterated. Bill Ayers’ girlfriend at the time was among the dead and he carried that grief and memory into Ayers Dohrn’s life. As a little kid, Zayd remembers going with his father to lay flowers at the site every year. 

Recalling that loss, Ayers Dohrn asks his father how he contemplated killing people with those bombs. Bill Ayers responded that “We often said things like, ‘I need to be a tool of the revolution.’ … Or ‘I need to be an instrument of the rebellion.’ And that instrumentalizing of our lives was more than a weakness. It was a horror.”

That realization and the other reflections Ayers Dohrn is able to elicit from his parents as they think back on their roles as revolutionaries are the backbone of this book. Bill and Bernardine Dohrn are able to reflect, see mistakes and missteps, explain their priorities, and accept responsibility for the harms they inflicted because they survived and so many other people who were part of this splinter movement did not.

It was a horror

It is difficult and brave that Zayd Ayers Dohrn contends with violence and memory without letting anyone — even his mother and father — off the hook. Against the backdrop of an administration and a president that can’t remember, or won’t admit to, crimes of three sentences ago, he holds his father and mother to a high standard. And they can take it. They survived the days of rage and purity tests and self-criticism sessions and the run-ins with the law and stretches of prison and dirty tricks that so many others did not.

His mother, Bernardine Dohrn, is now living with dementia, as is my own mother, and I found his present-day conversations with her the most poignant and difficult of the book. Memory threads all the way through this book. What do we remember? Why do some memories stick? 

Ayers Dohrn began his reckoning with family history in an extraordinary 10-part podcast called “Mother Country Radicals,” which was Fred Hampton’s term of endearment for the Weathermen. But as he researches his own past and excavates his own memory, there are things that don’t add up, don’t stitch together, memories that don’t bear up to scrutiny. There are contradictions that he can’t square.

Once the podcast was released, he received letters, diaries and phone calls from old fellow travelers. These new resources, along with 7,833 pages of FBI files, convinced him that there was more to the story and he sat down to write. The book is more in-depth, intimate and searching than the podcast. Ayers Dohrn is less star struck by his parents’ bravado too. Now, he is a parent, too, noting decisions that Bill and Bernadine made that put the family in jeopardy, that were hard for him, that caused him pain. He sees and feels the impact of his parents’ choice of the revolution over parenthood. “Over and over, you can see the same pattern, repeated: Asked to choose between solidarity and family, revolution and love, my parents and their comrades chose the cause almost every time.”

A 1969 mugshot of Bernadine Dohrn from an arrest at a Chicago protest, later circulated by the FBI. (FBI)

Family lore had it that Bill and Bernardine hung up their revolutionary bonafides when they became parents. But the documents Ayers Dohrn received after the podcast aired show that was not true. They continued to take risks even after they became parents of Zayd and his younger brother Malik. One memorable camping trip in West Virginia as a family turns out to be a trip to case Alderson Prison for Women where Black Panther leader Assata Shakur was serving out her sentence. She was eventually liberated from prison in another operation and Bill Ayers played a small — but very risky — role in that while Bernardine was home with Zayd.

Ayers Dohrn confronted his dad by asking: “What would have happened, not only to him but to me, my mother and my unborn brother?” Ayers responded: “It was a difficult decision. It felt monumental, it felt important. We were pretty clear that Bernardine would be with you. … But yeah, it was, in retrospect, really risky. And really on the edge.” But in the end, Bill Ayers played his part, “Because it mattered. Because the world needed it to happen.”

They continued to do leg work for the Black Liberation Army and other radical groups like Action Five even after they informally adopted 14-month-old Chesa Boudin. That should have been a clear warning to stop. Kathy Boudin and David Gilbert, Chesa’s parents, had acted as getaway drivers for an Action Five robbery on a Brinks armored truck in October 1981. The job quickly went off the rails and three people injured, and three others were killed — Nyack police officers Edward O’Grady and Waverly Brown, and Peter Paige, one of the team from the Brinks truck. Boudin and Gilbert spent decades in prison for their crimes while the Ayers Dohrn family raised their son. 

Life underground

I described this book to a friend, and she got stuck on the word underground. “Wait,” she demanded, “you mean they lived underground, like moles or Hobbits?” No, they lived under assumed names, worked cash jobs, had fake IDs. They were on the run from the FBI, facing jail time and family separation. They had disappeared from “normal society” and were dependent on friends and fellow travelers for support.

A striking moment in the book comes when Ayers Dohrn recounts that at one of his father’s off-the-books jobs, as a longshoreman in San Francisco, he gets the sense that something is about to go down. Bill Ayers saw men on the rooftops and by the union hall, standing out in their cheap suits and cop-loafers. But he was already at the docks and there was nowhere to run. The docks are all of a sudden swarmed with police and his co-workers started yelling “La Migra! La Migra!”

 “It only took a few minutes; the feds rounded them all up, chasing them to the edge of the water or just tackling them down to the concrete of the parking lot. And they let all the white people go” Ayers Dohrn recounts.

This article An intimate reckoning with the Weather Underground was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

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Frida Berrigan is a columnist for Waging Nonviolence and the author of "It Runs in the Family: On Being Raised by Radicals and Growing into Rebellious Motherhood." She lives in New London, Conn. with her husband Patrick and their three children.