Adam Beard
I sit in a small cubicle in the back of a police van and brace myself so I don’t slide off the plastic seat as we are driven through west London. After about half an hour a grand portcullis-like doorway between two brick towers is framed in the small window. As we enter, a large sign on the wall says Welcome To HMP Wandsworth. If it is meant to be reassuring, it doesn’t work.
I am taken into a dirty, airless room. It fills up with about twenty men. Some look afraid while others put on displays of macho bravado. A few rant about the unjust circumstances that led them being in custody. Reminding myself that I expected to be here today, I stay close to the small group I was arrested with. We exchange encouraging glances and wait.
One by one our names are called. When my turn comes, I follow a guard to a desk and a sour-faced woman jabs questions at me, like accusations.
‘Name? Use drugs? Gang issues?’
She’s clearly not looking for conversation. I give one-word answers. After another wait, I see a nurse. She’s much friendlier but pushed for time so the conversation here, too, is brief. Once she’s satisfied I’m not a suicide risk, I am sent to wait again before being taken to the wing. I’m led into a cell and the heavy steel door bangs shut behind me. There is no handle on the inside.
So began my stay in prison, a new experience by degrees scary and disorientating; a harsh world of noise and unfamiliar routine, of rules that new inmates are left to work out as best they can.
Six months earlier I had been in court for another offence: walking in the road on a Just Stop Oil ‘slow march’. In my defence, I told the judge that the disruption we caused was proportional to the chaos the climate emergency would bring unless the government stopped issuing new oil and gas licences. But I was thinking that it really wasn’t proportional. It struck me that slowing down traffic for twenty minutes was a pathetic response to the catastrophic harm being wreaked by ever growing global emissions. So when Just Stop Oil announced the plan to be part of an international campaign at airports to call on governments to sign the Fossil Fuel Non-Proliferation Treaty, I knew I would take part. After years of feeling paralysed by the enormity of the climate crisis, non-violent direct action had given me a feeling of agency and a powerful tool to try to bring about change. It also included me in a caring and courageous community of people.
Before any action, or indeed afterwards, it is almost impossible to know its effectiveness. It is often a cumulative effect, and it can take years before the impact is seen. We might not be successful, but I had to try. Given the government’s intolerance of peaceful protest and the high profile of airports, I knew there was a high chance of going to prison. It was time to prepare.
On a warm July morning, seven of us cycled towards Heathrow. In my backpack I carried a few things I thought I would need in prison as well as an orange hi viz vest, a banner and an angle grinder. I knew what we planned was safe and that no-one would come to harm, yet my heart was pounding, and I had to remind myself to breathe. I was worried about the legal consequences and the prospect of prison, but ready to face that. By nature, I am an introverted person, and I was about to step out of normal behaviour: likely to be in the news headlines and on tomorrow’s front pages. That scared me, but in the absence of honest information about what the climate crisis means for our future, this action was needed.
As we approached the airport on our bikes, I could see a line of planes queueing to take off – huge roaring machines. I paused and wondered if I had the courage to carry on. Thinking of future generations gave me the courage I needed, and I peddled on to the perimeter fence. As soon as we stopped, a police siren sounded and within seconds we were arrested. We didn’t cut the fence or even have time to put on our hi viz.
That was eight months ago. Now I’ve got the hang of prison life and have made best use of the time. I’ve read many books, taught literacy to prisoners and developed some creative writing skills. I’ve learned things about myself and met people I would not otherwise have come into contact with.
Over a seven-week trial, along with my co-defendants I presented my case, this time to a jury. I did my best to explain why I felt the need to take action to protect all our futures, even as the judge ruled that the climate crisis was not relevant to the case, and we could therefore not talk about it.
After six weeks of sitting in the courtroom, the jury was sent out to deliberate. They came back with guilty verdicts. During the trial I was granted bail and released from prison. As I write, I await sentencing. Whatever that brings, I have no regrets.
Adam Beard is a self-employed gardener based in Gloucestershire. He has been arrested eleven times for taking direct action with Just Stop Oil, trying to save us from ourselves. His last arrest in July 2024 resulted in seven months in prison on remand, with potentially more to come after sentencing in May.
Call to action:
Just Stop Oil is hanging up their hi vis, but it is not the end of our civil resistance against the genocidal burning of fossil fuels. To see what comes next go to the Just Stop Oil website.
Youth Demand continue to resist government sanctioned genocide, join or support them.
Defend Our Juries is a campaign to raise awareness of the jury’s right to acquit according to their conscience, a fact often hidden from them by our courts.
Free Political Prisoners is a campaign to, amongst other demands, end the jailing of people for taking peaceful action to protect life in accordance with uphold international law.