June 11^th: Never Forgotten
In Honor of June 11^th — International Solidarity Day with Long-Term Anarchist Prisoners

A Letter of Solidarity with Anarchists of the World

For over two centuries, anarchists have fought—not for themselves, but for all of humanity. We have spilled blood and sweat and surrendered our freedom, not for hatred of the state alone, but because we carry the unbearable truth that a world of justice and peace cannot exist while chains still rattle in prison cells and bullets still guard stolen wealth. We do this because we must. Because to live knowing the world is burning and to do nothing is itself a kind of death.

Even here—in the so-called “Land of the Free”—those who have dared to dream aloud of liberty and equality have paid with their lives. Louis Lingg, Albert Parsons, and their comrades were executed not for crimes, but for their convictions. Their trial was a spectacle, their evidence flimsy or fabricated. Their true offense? Demanding an eight-hour workday and the dignity of laborers.

Others, like Abdullah Öcalan, remain locked away in tombs built by cowards. Kidnapped in 1998, caged ever since on Imrali Island, Öcalan broke from rigid Marxist-Leninism and, through the influence of Murray Bookchin, turned toward anarchist ideas. His transformation helped inspire the Rojava revolution—a living testament to the potential of stateless, feminist, ecological resistance. And yet, he is still labelled a terrorist by the very forces that bomb weddings, fund tyrants, arm genocides and, ironically, hires terrorists to attack him.

The state will always brand us the enemy. It locks our bodies in cages, buries our comrades in unmarked graves, and casts our visionaries into exile. But it cannot erase our memory. And on June 11^th, we remember. We remember their names. We remember their struggle. And we remember that they are still not free.

This wound does not heal. This pain does not fade. It smolders into rage. It is because of this grief—this burning grief—that we must never relent. I have only walked this path for a handful of years, yet already I know: I would bleed for any soul who lives and breathes the meaning of anarchism. Not because they are saints, but because they are ours.

To every anarchist, I plead: let today not pass in silence. Hug the comrades you can. Write to those you cannot. Call them. Reach them. Let none be forgotten. Let none feel alone. Our most sacred law—the one law we do not break—is solidarity. Without it, we are scattered embers. Together, we are the fire they will never put out.

“We shall end up there again, or perhaps even worse things will happen to us, but it will be for the good of all, because we want to destroy all the injustice and poverty.” ~Between Peasants (Errico Malatesta — 1884)

Silence Into Ink

Turn Silence Into Ink

Don’t know what to do? Start with a letter.

You don’t need credentials. You don’t need money. You don’t need to be “good” at writing. You just need the guts to give a damn. One envelope, one honest page, can carry more weight than a thousand retweets.

Write to someone locked up for daring to resist. Someone caged not for hurting people, but for refusing to bow. That connection—real, physical, personal—is revolutionary.

This is for the broke kids, the ones they called stupid, the ones pushed out of school, the ones who learned more from life than from textbooks. You have everything it takes to write. Your voice is real. And that’s why they tried to silence it. So use it.

We don’t abandon our own. We reach for them.

Here’s how to do it safely, clearly, and in a way that reaches the people we’re trying to hold up:

Letter Writing Guidelines

From Scissortail ABC (@scissortail_abc | scissortailabc@pm.me)

DO:

• Use a plain white envelope

• Use plain white or lined paper

• Use a non-gel black or blue pen

• Write the return address & prisoner ID# on the envelope AND the letter

• Include a page count in your letter

• Format the address correctly (depending on the institution)

• Double-check requirements and restrictions

• Be honest about your intentions

• Be consistent (if that’s your goal)

• Be mindful and recognize SEVERAL people will read your letter—not just your pen pal

DON’T:

• Use unusual writing utensils (glitter, gel, puff paint pens, crayons, Sharpies, colored pencils, etc.)

• Send cards with raised illustrations

• Spray letters/cards with perfume or cologne

• Include stickers or Polaroids

• Include articles or other items cut from newspapers or magazines

• Write on both sides of the page

• Say anything incriminating

• Valorize who you’re writing to

• Ask about their trial/case

• Make promises you can’t keep

While these guidelines are general and can apply to a variety of institutions, it’s always best to check with the person you’re writing to for anything specific, and check the prison website to confirm the details of what will and will not be accepted.

If you include anything in your letter (like pictures), add a contents list to both your envelope and your letter.
This lets the prison and your pen pal know what should be in there—and what might have gone missing.

Sample Envelope Addressing:

Your Name
C/O Scissortail ABC
PO Box 580081
Tulsa, OK 74158

Legal First & Last Name + ID#
Cell/Bunk Location (optional)
Facility Name
PO Box # or Street Address
City, State ZIP

Sample Letter Heading:

Page 1 of 2
Their Name & ID#
Your Name
C/O Scissortail ABC
PO Box 580081
Tulsa, OK 74158

June 11^th, International Day of Solidarity with Long-Term Anarchist Prisoners

The first June 11^th event was held in 2004, sparked by the outrageous sentencing of Jeff “Free” Luers. A committed environmentalist and anarchist, Luers was sentenced in 2001 to over 22 years in prison for setting fire to three SUVs at a dealership in Eugene, Oregon. No one was harmed. The act, a symbolic protest against climate destruction and corporate greed, caused an estimated $40,000 in damages.

But the sentence was never about arson. It was about fear—fear of dissent, fear of those who will not kneel. In a society that worships property and punishes resistance, Luers became a message: this is what happens when you defy us. His caging was not justice—it was vengeance. And that is why June 11^th was born: not just to remember him, but to remember all those whom the state buries to protect its sacred altar of profit.

Luers was released in 2009. In response, the day June 11^th became the International Day of Solidarity with Long-Term Anarchist Prisoners—and yet, the reason for its existence persisted.

In 2006, another name joined the long list of targets in the U.S. government’s war on dissent: Eric McDavid. But unlike Luers, McDavid hadn’t even acted. He was convicted not for sabotage, but for thoughts, talk, and intent—all whispered into being by a paid FBI informant known only as “Anna.”

She infiltrated activist circles, manipulated emotions, provided bomb recipes and materials, and relentlessly pushed McDavid and two others toward imaginary plots. McDavid, emotionally vulnerable and isolated, found himself in a web of state-constructed fiction. No attacks ever occurred. No plans were even solid. And yet, he was sentenced to nearly 20 years in prison.

It wasn’t until 2015, after almost a decade behind bars, that suppressed FBI evidence came to light—letters and documents proving McDavid had been entrapped and exploited. His conviction was overturned. But what justice is there for years stolen by lies?

This, too, is why June 11^th matters. Not only to support those still behind bars, but to remind ourselves: the state does not punish crimes—it punishes threats. It fears those who dream of a freer world. And it will stop at nothing to silence them.

But we will not forget. And we will not be silent.

To grasp the full weight of this ongoing repression, we must bring our eyes to the present. The struggle did not end with Luers or McDavid. The machinery of the state continues grinding, and its targets are as real today in 2025 as they were then. The following examples remind us that this is not history—it is now.

Brian “Peppy” and Kristal DiPippa

On April 18, 2023, the University of Pittsburgh welcomed conservative pundit Michael Knowles to debate whether “transgenderism” should be regulated by law. To those in the queer and anarchist communities of Pittsburgh, this wasn’t a debate—it was provocation. A direct attack dressed in the velvet glove of “civil discourse.” Knowles, infamous for declaring that “transgenderism must be eradicated,” had become a lightning rod in the culture war. For many, especially those whose lives are already precarious under systems of medical denial, legal exclusion, and social violence, his appearance wasn’t speech—it was incitement.

Brian “Peppy” DiPippa and his wife Krystal DiPippa were among those who responded. Longtime anarchist organizers in Pittsburgh, both had built reputations on years of community support—mutual aid, direct action, queer liberation work. On that day, as the crowd massed in resistance, Brian allegedly dropped smoke bombs near the venue, and later—concealed by Krystal—threw a commercial-grade firework that exploded near police officers. Injuries were reported. Flames and fear spread.

Then the crackdown came.

Federal agents raided the DiPippa home on May 19^th, 2023. It wasn’t subtle. Heavily armed officers swarmed the quiet neighborhood at dawn, terrorizing not just Brian and Krystal, but the surrounding community. It was the kind of militarized spectacle reserved for drug kingpins and fugitives, not a couple known for handing out food and masks during the height of the pandemic.

Surveillance documents would later reveal the extent to which the state had been tracking them. Their trash was searched for anarchist literature. Social media accounts were combed. Beliefs—not just actions—became admissible evidence.

Brian was denied bail. Prosecutors pointed to his “strongly held belief system that embraces anarchism” as a reason to keep him detained. Krystal was released under strict conditions.

Under threat of a ten-year mandatory minimum sentence for use of an explosive device during a federal felony, Brian accepted a non-cooperating plea agreement. The most serious charge was dropped. He pleaded guilty to conspiracy and obstructing law enforcement during a civil disorder.

Krystal, accused of aiding him in the act, also pleaded guilty to obstruction.

In January 2025, sentences were handed down:

• Brian: 5 years in federal prison
  

• Krystal: 3 years probation, 240 hours of community service
  

• Both: Nearly $50,000 in restitution to an officer who claimed a spinal injury from the incident.

The DiPippas are political prisoners. They are being punished not for who they harmed, but for what they represent: community resilience, queer defiance, and anarchist resistance in a decaying empire. Their real crime is organizing, loving each other, and refusing to sit quietly while fascists debate the right of others to exist. In court, it wasn’t just evidence of actions that was presented—it was Brian’s books. His ideas. His friends. The entire trial was soaked in a logic as old as COINTELPRO: criminalize belief, criminalize dissent, and isolate the brave.

This isn’t an isolated case. Across the U.S., anarchists and abolitionists face mounting repression: from Atlanta’s “Stop Cop City” activists slapped with terrorism charges, to mutual aid groups surveilled and infiltrated by federal agents. The DiPippas’ case is part of a broader strategy: decapitate grassroots resistance by targeting its most committed organizers.

But if the state thinks caging Peppy and punishing Krystal will break us, it misunderstands the nature of this movement. They don’t make martyrs out of bureaucrats. They make them out of lovers who burn with clarity in the face of injustice. Brian is now imprisoned at FCI Elkton. Letters are welcome—thoughtful, non-case-related, and personal. Talk about books. Music. Everyday life. Remind him he’s not alone.

Brian DiPippa #66590–510
FCI Elkton
Federal Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 10
Lisbon, OH 44432

Marius Mason: Still Unbroken

Marius Mason is an anarchist, environmentalist, and transgender political prisoner serving a 22-year sentence for acts of property destruction carried out in defense of the Earth.

Before his arrest in 2008, Marius was a well-known community organizer in the Midwest—engaged in everything from punk shows to prisoner support. He was arrested as part of the FBI’s so-called “Green Scare” crackdown, which targeted radical environmental and animal rights activists as domestic terrorists. No one was harmed in any of Marius’ actions. But property was damaged—and under capitalism, that is the gravest sin.

Marius accepted responsibility. But he refused to name names. The state punished him not just for arson, but for loyalty, for silence, for refusing to be turned against his comrades.

Since his imprisonment, Marius has come out as a transgender man. That act alone was a rebellion behind bars. As a trans prisoner in a federal system still hostile to gender self-determination, he has faced added scrutiny, isolation, and institutional violence. And yet—he writes. He paints. He dreams. He refuses to vanish.

Marius is one of the core reasons June 11^th exists.

He is not forgotten—and he must never be.

Marius Mason #04672–061
FCI Danbury
Federal Correctional Institution
33 1/2 Pembroke Station Road
Danbury, CT 06811

Michael Kimble: No Apologies in a Warzone

Michael Kimble has been imprisoned since 1986.

A Black anarchist and anti-racist freedom fighter, Michael was sentenced to life in prison in Alabama after killing a known white supremacist during an altercation. The court called it murder. But to Michael—and to those who know what life is like under Southern apartheid—it was self-defense. He was 21.

Michael found anarchism behind bars, not in books but through the raw struggle for dignity, survival, and autonomy in one of the most brutal prison systems in the United States. Over the decades, he’s organized hunger strikes, exposed medical neglect, resisted racial segregation, and written prolifically about power, domination, and resistance.

He calls the U.S. prison system what it is: a plantation with guards instead of overseers. And he refuses to beg for freedom. Michael Kimble isn’t a footnote. He’s a warning: the oppressed will fight back.

And he’s still fighting—inside the walls, against white supremacy, against the prison machine, and against every attempt to silence him.

Michael Kimble #138017
Bibb Correctional Facility
565 Bibb Lane
Brent, AL 35034

Rodney Hinton Jr.

On May 1, 2025, 18-year-old Ryan Hinton was fatally shot by Cincinnati police during an investigation into a reported stolen vehicle. Body camera footage shows officers confronting the vehicle’s occupants, with Ryan fleeing the scene. An officer can be heard shouting, “He’s got a gun!” before firing multiple shots. A firearm was recovered at the scene, but there is no indication that Ryan fired it.

The following day, Rodney Hinton Jr., Ryan’s father, viewed the body camera footage at the Cincinnati Police Department. Overcome with grief, he left the viewing session early.

Later that day, Rodney allegedly drove his car into Hamilton County Sheriff’s Deputy Larry Henderson, who was directing traffic near the University of Cincinnati’s graduation ceremony. Deputy Henderson, a recently retired officer working a special assignment, died from his injuries.

Rodney Hinton Jr. was arrested and charged with two counts of aggravated murder, among other charges. Prosecutors are seeking the death penalty, alleging that the act was premeditated.

Rodney’s defense attorney has indicated plans to plead not guilty by reason of insanity, citing the emotional distress caused by his son’s death. Rodney is currently being held without bond, with a trial date set for February 2026.

Rodney Hinton Jr. is not an anarchist. But that doesn’t matter.

What matters is that he loved his son. That he watched police take that life without consequence. And that now, in the aftermath, the state wants to bury him too.

His grief is not unique—but it is unbearable. And that’s why they fear it. Because when one man’s grief speaks clearly enough, it becomes all of ours. His story resonates with every single person who’s ever been crushed by this machine and told to thank it for the privilege.

Rodney’s not just a father in mourning—he’s a mirror held up to the violence this system calls justice. He belongs in this zine because June 11^th isn’t about purity of ideology. It’s about remembering those who carry the cost of resistance, whether they planned it or not.

Solidarity doesn’t require a flag. Just humanity.

Rodney Hinton Jr. #A123456
Clermont County Jail
4700 Filager Road
Batavia, OH 45103

Note: Please verify the inmate ID number and mailing address before sending correspondence.