Published Works

I was born and raised in Stockholm and grew up in a loving home. My dad is a doctor from the Gambia in West Africa, and my mom was a scientist, originally from Estonia, but emigrated to Sweden.

At around 8 years old I started learning about hip-hop culture in New York and by 11, I had started rapping. I then started going into studios—at the time in Sweden there were a lot of youth centres that put a lot of effort in having the kids involved in music programmes.

Then on the way home from my sister’s wedding in Italy when I was 17, we were in a car accident and we lost my mom. My dad had moved back to Africa at that time, so it was rough for me as I was living with my grandparents. Yet shortly after, I was offered my first record deal, aged 17, and signed at 18.

I signed another deal aged 23 with my Swedish group, The Navigators, and when we went our separate ways, I started to work with American artists and I was asked if I wanted to put eight bars on an Ashley Tisdale record. I was soon invited by a producer called Bloodshy to work on a Britney Spears record. I then worked more with Ashley Tisdale, I was having meetings with huge agents and I had a really good set up in L.A.

That’s when this incident took place, where in 2008 I made a bad decision and had an altercation that led to the death of a man called Mr Osnes. The following day I was arrested, but I didn’t know he had died—when I was told, I broke down and cried.

Eventually I was sentenced to 15 years-to-life in jail for second degree murder. I take full responsibility and I have extreme remorse for what I did, I took a man’s life. Even though it wasn’t on purpose, I live with that every day.

But it was shocking because I had dreamt about being in LA and I had worked really hard for 20 years in the music industry. That was the hardest time of my life next to losing my mom.

I caught on to the codes of jail pretty quickly. Me being from another country made me vulnerable in one way but also protected me in another, because I’m not affiliated with a gang. “Where you from?” in LA county jails is kind of how they invite you to fight.

I transferred to Solano County Jail and I fit in pretty quickly because I avoided trouble—like gambling or borrowing money. I went to the law library a lot, to church, read the bible and worked as an English and Math tutor. About six months into my sentence I bought a guitar and started playing and writing songs, that was pretty much my life for about three and a half years.

But what happens in an environment like that is that you can’t be soft, because you’re going to become a victim very quickly. You spend your hours in the yard working out to make sure no one messes with you, and walk around like you’re super tough. But you never really deal with all these different emotions you have inside.

The majority of people in prison will eventually get out. So who do you want as your neighbour? Somebody that’s been put in a really violent yard, with no resources to deal with their anger issues. Or do you want somebody who has access to programs like prison yoga or mindfulness meditation, non-violence self help groups and education?

One thing I always did was write music. Then the Swedish Consulate said they could visit me more often if I moved to San Quentin State Prison. Transferring to a different prison is iffy because you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, but it was approved in 2013.

Within a week I performed in church, I rapped a long verse and the whole church stood up and gave me a standing ovation. The day after a guy came up to me and asked me to come down to the media center. I started working there, editing different radio stories and learning a lot about journalism. I had an iMac computer but there was no music software, so I really wanted to get a keyboard in.

I asked a friend in Sweden to order a keyboard for me. I knew it wasn’t allowed in, but i prayed about it. Gator, my cellmate, happened to be there when the keyboard came. They were going to send it back, and Gator—who knew everyone because he’d been down for more than 40 years—told them it was mine and that I was going to teach him piano. I got the keyboard, and started producing beats in the cell. Half San Quentin Mixtape Vol. 1 is actually made on that keyboard.

People knew me because I used to perform as a rapper in San Quentin—a lot of the youngsters used to come by the media center and listen. But I’d hear them rapping things like, “shoot him in the head!”—crazy type talk that was glorifying violence.

I offered incarcerated men the chance to be on the mixtape and I said I would produce it on one condition; that they use no profanity and no derogatory language at all. Instead, I told them to talk about their struggle, their authentic feelings or how they miss their mom or daughter.

They were not used to doing that in such a vulnerable way. And they definitely weren’t used to rapping without curse words. But I knew that if you take out the curse words, you have to dig deeper, you have to find other words to explain. I showed them some of my songs where I don’t cuss. It was still hardcore beats, but what they were saying was more authentic.

When they rapped, a lot of them broke down in tears because everything became so real. But I think because they were being authentic, everyone else in prison could relate to what they were saying because they felt the same pain.

That’s what is so beautiful about truth.

I recorded hundreds of songs in different volumes—San Quentin Mixtape, Vol. 1 is just the first. It took more than four years, and probably worked with 50 to 60 guys during that time. San Quentin has volunteers come in and they would see me with these youngsters in the San Quentin Music Program, and people started talking about it.

I started working with Dream Corps’ #cut50, founded by Jessica Jackson, Matt Haney and Van Jones. Then I met J. Cole when he came in with Scott Budnick, producer of The Hangover, and eventually Common wanted to come in as well, and we had a meeting and talked. He sat and listened to all the songs.

Word kind of spread around. Kim Kardashian heard about it and came in and talked to me. What surprised me about her was how dedicated she really is to prison reform, and how much she really knows about the issue, and how well her questions were formed. That was something that I was very inspired by.

Before I was released from San Quentin in March, I made sure that I had taught the skills needed to my team. I really wanted it to continue like a professional studio environment. The team at San Quentin are continuing the legacy of it all and I’m still producing the beats from Sweden.

Right now I’m back living in Stockholm. I’m promoting the mixtape and building back my career. But there is still a problem with structural racism, and there are so many different entities within society that contribute to the problem. I went to the Black Lives Matter protest here and what I really hope is that people get away from this “All Lives Matter” thing.

Black Lives Matter is not saying that other lives don’t matter. And it’s so frustrating to keep hearing that. You have to be blind not to see the oppression that’s been going on for Black people for more than 400 years.

There’s a fire going on and it needs to be fixed. It’s a worldwide issue.

I could never just go back to just working and making money and forget about where I’ve been. To me the San Quentin guys are like family.

One thing that was important to me was not only record these mixtapes, but invite people from the music industry to talk to the inmates. So that when these guys eventually parole, they have this connection to the industry.

I love being able to still be part of the project. It’s beautiful to be home, but there are plenty of good men still in prison, and some of those guys I may not ever see again. I get emotional about it—it’s bittersweet.

Attribution: This article originally appeared in Newsweek on June 25, 2020.
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When I walked out of San Quentin prison in 2013, I left behind the despair, violence and uncertainty rampant within its walls. Like a suit of armor I had to wear for decades, I gladly shed the protective gear of survival skills that were no longer applicable on this side of the wall. I never imagined that any of those skills would prove useful to my life today.

However, when the coronavirus hit the United States, and shelter-in-place orders were put into effect, it reaffirmed the fact that everything we experience in life is meant to teach us something useful. And my incarceration is no exception.

I spent more than 20 years in the California prison system in one of two ways: in “normal program” or some form of “lockdown.” During normal program, I had privileges: I could exercise in the yard, work on school assignments and have visitors. During lockdown, I was confined to a 6-foot-by-9-foot cell 24/7. Lockdowns are an inevitable part of the prison environment and so is the stress associated with the uncertainty of how long it will last.

Today, on the outside, there’s a familiar anxiety in the air. People are unsure and nervous. People are confined to their homes without an idea of when life will return to normal.

While incarcerated, I survived those periods of uncertainty with a particular mindset and practices. Both helped me endure long periods of isolation.

Below is a guide to some of what I’ve learned:

Develop a practical daily routine. A daily routine that works for you will keep you productive, feeling accomplished and focused on the moment rather than the overwhelming amount of stress in the unknown.

Exercise. Most of us aren’t moving as much as we normally would. Over a long period of time, this could have detrimental effects on our muscle tone and cardiovascular health. Furthermore, exercise has a positive, calming effect on our mind. It can help improve sleep, which is often impacted by stress.

If you think that you can’t exercise while staying inside your home, you’re wrong. I exercised in a tiny cell that I shared with another person for months at a time. There is always a way. Today, we have access to online exercise programs. We can also go outside and take a walk or a jog or a bike ride, as long as we practice social distancing. Find something that works for you, and do it regularly.

Read. Nothing like a good book to stimulate ideas and open one’s mind to possibilities beyond a given set of circumstances.

Cleanliness. Keeping your space clean and organized helps to improve your mental health and, in this case, reduces your likelihood of exposure to the virus. Make your bed every day, clean the dishes right after you use them, put your clothes away. Maintain the order of your house. It will make a big difference.

Create some privacy. Being limited to a confined space for an extended period of time can be stressful. So if you’re sharing a space be sure to define places where you can have a bit of privacy, no matter how small. This alone space can be in the bathroom, on a walk, in the garage. Take some time for yourself every day, no matter how short.

Make the most of what you have. In difficult times, how you think about your circumstances directly impacts your experience. We can always think of what we don’t have and what we can’t do. This can lead us into despair. Instead, think of what you do have, and what you can do. If you have a home base that is safe and comfortable, be thankful. If you have access to food, supplies and the internet, rejoice in how these resources are keeping you and your family safe. Having a perspective of gratitude can change your mental well being and ability to function.

Focus on what you have control over. Lack of control is extremely stressful. If you only think about the uncertainty of your current circumstances and what you don’t know, your anxiety will increase, potentially affecting your physical and mental health. Instead focus your mind on what you do have control over. This approach will keep you focused on the moment and reduce your stress and anxiety.

Stay connected. Communicate with family and friends. During prison lockdowns the only way to stay connected to family and friends was through good old fashioned snail mail. Now, we can leverage technology like Skype and Zoom.

Maintain a positive attitude. Your attitude is the only thing that can change an obstacle into an opportunity. Even though you may be facing the same tough circumstances as someone else, your response to it can change your results.

Embrace that your survival is up to you. Remember that you can choose to follow the rules about social distancing, wearing some sort of mask and self-isolating for the recommended time. People who are incarcerated don’t have the luxury of social distancing. It is very difficult for them to avoid such a highly contagious virus. Prisons are extremely vulnerable, not just for the people who live there, but for the staff, the guards, the nurses and the prison administrators. I think about my friends who are incarcerated today and worry for their safety.

Make a commitment to personal growth. Every time I went into lockdown, I made a goal to be a better, stronger person by the time I got out. This virus affects us all. But we have a choice: We can continue business as usual, or we can change. We can come out of this stronger than before.

We humans have an incredible ability to endure the most difficult of circumstances.

Prison University Project student Rahsaan “New York” Thomas writes in The Marshall Project about his experience working on the award-winning Ear Hustle Podcast from inside San Quentin.

The sun shines brightly through the gated windows so I grab a pair of Sony headphones and the Tascam (a portable audio recorder) and leave the office with my co-worker, John “Yahya” Johnson, an intellectual Muslim brother out of Oakland. Curious as to how many people behind bars have seen the romance movie “The Notebook,” we venture outside to the yard to find out. I walk up to the first guy I see, someone waiting on the sidelines to play basketball.

“Hey man, can I interview you about the classic romance movie called ‘The Notebook?’”

“I’ve never seen ‘The Notebook.’”

“So what’s the best romance movie you have seen?”

“’Baby Boy.’”

I laugh because Baby Boy, an urban tale about a childish young man who needs to grow up in order to raise his son alongside the mother, is not what I would consider a classic romance movie.

Then I remove a release form (to have the man I’d just interviewed sign) from a green binder with an Ear Hustle logo stuck on the cover.

Ear Hustle is the award-winning podcast about life inside prison—specifically my prison, San Quentin—that has around 30 million downloads in total. It’s the brainchild of Nigel Poor, a professor who taught for years at San Quentin, Earlonne Woods, a man who was serving a life sentence for attempted robbery under California’s three-strikes law, and Antwan “Banks” Williams. The original plan was to circulate the show only inside the prison, but then they got permission to enter a Radiotopia “Podquest” contest.

No one at San Quentin knew how to do a podcast, but they entered anyway—and won. In 2017, Ear Hustle launched to critical acclaim with “Cellies,” featured on the Today Show, tallying nearly 2 million downloads.

As a reporter for the San Quentin News, I covered the rapid rise of the podcast as it defied the gravity of being produced inside a prison. From right next door, I cheered at the accomplishment of something that no incarcerated people had ever been able to do so effectively: reach millions of people.

But in 2018, Gov. Jerry Brown commuted Earlonne’s sentence, and he became a free man; his job as co-producer and co-host was suddenly available. Eager to learn how to tell more effective stories, I jumped at the chance to apply. That meant getting grilled by Nigel, while Earlonne warned me that I probably should just settle for being a producer. It would be hard to follow a guy with a perfect radio voice, I knew.

But Earlonne surprised me a few weeks later, saying, “It’s you, dog. You gonna be the new co-host.” I felt proud to be chosen, of course, but even more scared about following his act. Earlonne’s charisma and rapport with Nigel are a huge part of the podcast’s success. Plus he’s a three-striker, which gets him a measure of sympathy, whereas I’m convicted of murder. Would the world accept me becoming the voice of Ear Hustle?

A few nervous month later, it was decided that Earlonne would actually continue with the show by producing and co-hosting certain stories that covered the other side of incarceration: what it’s like to be on parole. I felt relieved from the pressure to single-handedly maintain the show’s success.

On the yard, Yahya and I continued to ask people about “The Notebook” for an episode about “dating while on parole” called, “I Want the Fairy Tale.” We interviewed about eight more guys at random. A few declined to speak on the record, but most hold Ear Hustle in high regard and were eager for a chance to shine. After finding out that the majority of men at San Quentin won’t admit to being chick-flick fans, we headed back to the media center. There, Nigel sat at an iMac computer editing audio using ProTools software. Across the small space, Antwan worked with Pat Mesiti-Miller, an audio engineer, on sound-designing.

Nigel and Pat are our supervisors, but it feels like the only difference between us is that they get to leave the prison and go home at the end of the workday. Otherwise we are colleagues. I weigh in on stories and how far we can go without losing the respect of the incarcerated people who trust us. (We often have to advise the men not to give us too much information about themselves, for their own privacy and security in here, no matter how many downloads they think their most dramatic story will get.)

I’ve heard it said that there can be no communication until we sit together as equals. Working for Ear Hustle feels like that. In most prisons I’ve been to, it didn’t feel like I could work with society to accomplish anything. Like so many in lockup, I felt alienated from you. But now I feel like a productive member of both the inside and outside community.

Besides working with my colleagues, I also interact with Lieutenant Robinson, the public information officer here. He’s the type of prison official who supports positive endeavors and empowers us to carry them out. It’s his signature on a memo of permission that allows me to walk the yard conducting interviews. For the first time in my life, I enjoy talking with a correctional officer—it’s actually fun to hear him clown around when he records the approvals that we play during each episode.

Today the Lt. came to weigh in on our “Inside Music” episode. A microphone attached to what looks like a robotic arm extends to each side of a small table. ProTools is set to record.

“I went back and forth” on approving this one, the Lt. said into the mic, “because I know there’s a genre you guys missed. There is no country music in this episode. [But], begrudgingly, I am Lt. Sam Robinson at San Quentin State Prison, the public information officer who approves this episode.”

Producing a podcast from prison isn’t all green lights, though. The “Inside Music” episode went up behind schedule because it had to be further cleared by the administration before it could be released, and that happened a day late. They check for “security and safety” concerns.

It can be frustrating, but then I remember: There’s probably no other prison in the world where a man convicted of murder would be allowed to use his time so productively doing something he loves—bringing joy, understanding, and entertainment to the public about the human nature of people behind bars. Because of how much harm I caused many families, it doesn’t feel like I deserve to be co-host of anything. At the same time, I’m hungry to make meaning out of destruction.

With each episode, I wonder if some listener will object to me co-hosting.

At the end of the day, I return to a cell that I share with another incarcerated person. I grab my shower stuff and troop back down five flights of stairs to the shower that’s down there. It’s full. A line of 12 men stand under a small pipe with nozzles streaming water, each just two feet apart.

I wait on the side until a shower becomes available and wash myself there, in front of everyone. About 20 minutes later, I’m back in my cell as a correctional officer locks the door for the night. I’m in prison.

But before walking away, he hesitates, shuffles through some envelopes and says, “Thomas.”

“95,” I answer, indicating the last two numbers of my prison identification number.

“You got some letters.”

He hands three through the side of the gate. I quickly scan the return addresses. One is from someone I don’t recognize.

I open it and commence reading. It starts with, “I heard you on Ear Hustle.”

I grin.

Please note that the Prison University Project became Mount Tamalpais College in September 2020.

In 1996, I took a man’s life and nearly paid for it with my own.

I was a different person back then — a young man who carried a gun and wasn’t afraid to use it. One evening, I came home and saw my neighbor in a heated argument with his girlfriend. When I tried to intervene, he came at me. I fired once and hit him in the stomach, killing him.

I was convicted of second-degree murder and sentenced to 15 years to life, plus a three-year gun enhancement. At 21 years old, I faced the possibility of spending the rest of my life behind bars.

For the next 18 years, I worked hard to understand what had gone so tragically wrong that day. It wasn’t just about coming to terms with the pain I caused to my victim and his family, as well as my own loved ones and my community as a whole. First, I had to confront the anger and selfishness that had built up inside me, blinding me to the fact that I had so much to lose in that moment, including a young son of my own.

After that, I vowed to dedicate myself to rehabilitation, and to helping other prisoners learn how to help themselves as well.

Luckily, a shift in state policy gave lifers like me a better chance at parole. In 2013, after demonstrating the progress I’d made while incarcerated, I was released from prison. My passion for helping others has taken a variety of forms in the years since, but my latest role, as a neighborhood change agent for Advance Peace in Richmond, has truly brought my life full circle.

At Advance Peace, we work to break cycles of gun violence by offering resources and mentorship to the individuals who are most often at the center of this bloodshed. Many of the young men in the program — our “fellows” — remind me of myself back in 1996: isolated, frustrated, searching for purpose. My job is to reach out to them and show them that they’re not as alone as I felt then.

When they think their back is against the wall and they have no choice but to lash out, I’m there to talk them through it. When they’re ready to commit to a nonviolent life, I’m there to help map out a plan and hold them accountable for sticking to it.

When they’re ready, we create a plan together that roughly maps out their short-, medium- and long-term goals for personal safety, safe housing, education, employment, anger management, conflict resolution, creating positive social networks, financial literacy, behavioral/medical healthcare, substance use disorder support, parenting, recreation and spirituality. Each plan is different, because the goal is to meet each fellow where he is.

Altering the trajectory of someone’s life in this way is tireless work. Conflict never sleeps, and the neighborhood change agents of Advance Peace often don’t, either. But it’s also rewarding to be making such a positive impact.

Since 2009, the year before this mission officially began with the creation of the Peacemaker Fellowship through Richmond’s Office of Neighborhood Safety, the city’s total gun violence resulting in injury or death has fallen by more than 68%. An analysis found that in the first five years of the program’s existence, Advance Peace produced a positive economic impact to the city of roughly $500 million.

This is a good start, but there’s still more to do. For far too long, underserved communities have been made to feel that the system doesn’t want them to succeed. My fellows and I are living proof that anything is possible when we give people the right opportunities and resources. But if we want to replicate success stories like ours, we must invest accordingly. And as my experience shows, we have to do this work on the front end. People need to be able to access these tools before they end up in the criminal justice system, not only after, when the damage is already done.

This message is finally starting to resonate in California. Last week, legislators passed a budget offering $30 million for California’s Violence Intervention and Prevention Grant Program, more than tripling last year’s total. That means an additional $21 million for cities and community-based groups like ours to address serious violence, which is a big deal.

We still need Gov. Gavin Newsom to sign the budget, which is supposed to happen on or before July 1. With Newsom’s support, along with the support of state lawmakers and gun violence prevention advocates, Advance Peace will have more resources to expand our reach and empower neighborhood change agents like myself.

I’m proud of everything we’ve already accomplished at Advance Peace. With the support of the people of California, I can now say confidently that we’re just getting started.

In 2003, Adnan Khan committed a robbery in which one of his accomplices unexpectedly killed their victim. The prosecutors, judge and jury all agreed Khan did not plan or commit the murder. Yet he was still sentenced as if he had — and given a life sentence.

The reason is the felony murder rule, an arcane piece of legal doctrine that allows all accomplices to be held equally responsible for deaths that happen in the committing of a felony.

Researchers estimate as many as one in five people serving long life sentences did not actually kill anyone.

In this video Op-Ed, Khan argues that it is time for the felony murder rule to be changed in every state, as it was in California last year. One of the basic principles of a fair justice system is that you are punished for the crimes you commit, not those committed by other people.

Prison University Project student Carl Raybon’s story is one in a series of oral histories that Voice of Witness has collected through collaborative storytelling workshops with Prison University Project students.

I grew up in Spring Lake (N.C.). This is a small town outside of a major military facility, but none of my relatives were active duty members during my childhood years. Reflecting back on these years, it comes as no surprise that there were some years or moments when my life was so innocent and I felt loved and cared for by a host of men and women who were self-made people maintaining their own land, animals, and lives. This was the 1970’s and I had lived in California with my mother for a few years before returning to “the country.”

As a rambunctious and curious seven to eight-year-old I found the woods, creeks, and rivers very adventurous and teeming with wildlife that had my eyes wide and my hands and legs busy. All the same, the wrap around porches and big magnolia trees with their beautiful flowers provided shade and a calmness that eased all of the anxiety brought on by the running, jumping, fishing, and playing. Along for the many journeys would be my host of best friends—my cousins Tim, Ted, Todd, and Lenard—in our own imaginations we were every person or thing we wanted to be. Cowboys. Indians. Army men. Treasure hunters. The woods provided all the wonder that the television projected.

Beyond the imaginations of wonder, however, were the realties that would later awaken in me a conflict with my own flesh and sense of innocence. The fun of using stealth to get “our” way – when the cousins and I would experiment with the “grownup’s” ways of entertaining and mood altering – would offer us the right amount of risk and rush of adrenaline. The consequences I saw many of the adults incur wouldn’t occur in my life at the “tween” or teenage years, but there were glimpses of what was to come as adulthood happened on us teenagers. As high schoolers in North Carolina we worked part-time jobs on the Army base and drove the school buses for our public county school district, so behaving like the adults we looked up to would often times get overplayed and life would get a little confusing.

Living life as an adult would allude on occasion to my inability to maintain the mature, levelheaded patience and sense of insight it takes to grow into an adult. I often resorted to medicating my insecurities and uncertainties about life, and that led me to loss in every aspect of life. As the years have come and gone, I have come to realize for all those years I traveled, I got further and further away from that age of innocence. I collected more baggage of shame and guilt than any man should want to carry. But no matter, for a new day has dawned and visions of “Ole Spring Lake” come again, and hope, life, and love seem possible again.

Attribution: This article originally appeared in the Voice of Witness blog on May 28, 2019.
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Please note that the Prison University Project became Mount Tamalpais College in September 2020.