OPINION | Spending Privilege for Palestine: Why I Got Arrested With the Sea-Tac 46 and Why You Should Too

by Sarah Stuteville

The zip ties cut into my wrists as I stood on the side of the freeway, jet fuel shimmering in the sun on the runway behind us. It was early April, and I'd just been arrested for blocking the roadway into Sea-Tac Airport. I was there to bring attention to the ongoing genocide in Gaza, where, in response to the Oct. 7, 2023, attack by Hamas, Israel has killed directly and indirectly, according to some estimates, nearly 200,000 people — many of them children.

A stream of travelers — who now had to walk from their cars to the airport — offered up their commentary. There were the usual insults: expletives that mingled with some version of "Get a job!" and "Losers!" There were the now predictable, careless accusations of antisemitism.

But there was one sort of response that particularly stood out to me. People, their faces contorted in anger, who shouted versions of "Nobody cares!" and "This doesn't have anything to do with you!"

Now, four months later, you can add, "You'll get Trump elected," to the regular epithets flung at pro-Palestine protesters. It was practically the unofficial slogan of the Democratic National Convention, as it unfolded without platforming a single Palestinian voice. There are always more important things at stake than demanding systemic change and standing up for the most vulnerable. There's always a long game we are supposedly failing to understand. There's always a critical election. There's always a plane to catch.

It's never our business. Our outrage is somehow always misplaced and ill-timed.

But the Sea-Tac 46 (as those of us arrested that day would come to be called) knew our target. We chose Tax Day for a reason. This genocide is being funded and supported by the U.S. government — with over $12 billion sent to Israel this year alone. We chose the airport for the opportunity to disrupt business as usual for an airline industry dominated by Boeing. Alongside building faulty planes that have failed commercial travelers (and led to plenty of travel delays) and a defective space shuttle currently home to two astronauts stuck in space, they've also been a top manufacturer of missiles and munitions to Israel.

I don't expect that the people who were walking past us outside the airport that spring afternoon knew this.

But you know who does know that U.S. corporations profit from genocide? All the politicians who worked to silence Palestinian voices at the DNC in Chicago. And local prosecutors bringing beefed-up charges against pro-Palestine protesters in the Pacific Northwest. They protect that corporate money and that corporate money protects their political positions.

No wonder our timing is never right.

But it wasn't just political outrage that led me to block the airport with my 45 comrades.

As a mother of two small kids, I have watched image after image of Palestinian parents in Gaza holding their dead, injured, and starving children up to a camera — their agony occasionally broken up on my Instagram feed with advertisements for moisturizing cream and bralettes. Each one of those children is a universe. Each one of those parents is experiencing pain that sets my stomach to ice when I even begin to imagine a dark and empty corner of it.

I have watched as an entire population is emotionally and physically traumatized to a degree that, as a trained mental health counselor, I know will take generations to heal. Humanity will pay the price of this collective trauma for decades beyond my own life. With every day that has come and gone without a ceasefire, I feel a year we are adding to our grief-filled worldwide destiny.

In the four months since I stood, Palestinian flag raised in front of a sea of cars stalled by our protest, the genocide has continued unchecked. But consciousness is shifting. We've seen students go to battle with police, college administrations, and actual gangs of fascists in defense of Palestine. We've seen the "Uncommitted" movement help secure a stronger presidential candidate than Biden. We saw homegrown musician Macklemore climb the charts with his anti-genocide anthem, "Hind's Hall."

But still, those in power, like those hecklers on the side of the freeway, would tell us there's nothing we can do.

The political problem with Palestine, and the reason it vexes those who are deeply invested in the status quo, is that there is no comfy middle ground.

I am a white Seattleite, born and raised in this city, so I've been taught the art of trading vaguely in social justice and progressivism. We're all for a fashionable cause and a good lawn sign. But when there's real change at stake, things get uncomfortable, and the equivocation begins.

We start with calling for reason, balance, and to "see both sides," no matter how profound the power imbalance between the sides. From there, our respectability policing begins. Now anyone who implicates us, or disrupts our daily lives, is banished from our circle of protection. "We would have supported your humanitarian ideals, if you'd just done it more politely." By which we usually mean, done nothing meaningful at all.

It was the playbook used to counter the WTO protests in 1999. And it was rolled out again during the George Floyd uprisings just over 20 years later. Now, we see it used once again against this current anti-genocide movement. And I suspect that's no accident. Those three political movements have in common deeply anti-capitalist analysis and unrelenting demands for systemic change.

To our detractors, disruptive protest is only ever acceptable through the distant lens of history. Disruptive protest paired with full-throated calls for the dismantling of systemic oppression? Never acceptable.

But if those Black Lives Matter protestors can face a line of riot cops, so can I. And if those college students can get arrested for Palestine, so can I.

And if I can get arrested for Palestine, so can you.

As a person with privilege to spend, the experience of arrest is extremely meaningful. A country that can dehumanize Palestinians can do so because we're practiced at it. Our prison system is at the brutal heart of that practice (and the two things are currently being paired to criminalize protest). As a 40-something-year-old white woman, I don't get the wrong end of that type of dehumanization very often. Going to jail is a quick way to get a taste of it.

After a few hours handcuffed on the side of the freeway, a group of us were shuffled into a police van. It was a tiny, hot space that would have been claustrophobic with the lights on. But of course, they weren't, and the air was thick as ink around us. None of us knew how long we sat there before we started moving. To beat back panic, we talked about our pets, our favorite childhood cartoons, and the food our families might make for us when we were able to be home again.

The jail we finally arrived at was the South Correctional Entity (known as "SCORE") — a private jail in Des Moines where seven people have died in the past year. The Seattle City Council just approved a $2 million contract with SCORE this month. In April, when I was there with many of the Sea-Tac 46, water barely dribbled out of a disgusting sink in our cell. The pervasive cold kept us shivering with our arms shoved inside the short sleeves of our khaki jail scrubs. My fellow protestors weren't given essential medication despite multiple requests. And trans protestors were misgendered, mistreated, and left in solitary confinement. I was held there for 14 hours, a number of those hours after bail had been posted and I had been processed.

Despite these experiences, we were still privileged compared to the people we were in jail with who were not protestors. Those people didn't have bail pre-arranged for them, and they may or may not have had any support (or even a ride) after they were released. And we were even more privileged compared to the thousands of Palestinian prisoners who are currently being held in Israeli prisons with no expectation of due process whatsoever.

Before I went to jail, I was an abolitionist. I believe in the dismantling of our prison system — a system that disproportionately criminalizes BIPOC people and poor people for profit and hurts all our communities. After I went to jail, I was reminded that this is also a system that is used to punish and intimidate people standing up for a more just world.

And that makes those of us who are arrested for Palestine part of an important protest tradition in this country.

If you imagined yourself blocking bridges and sitting at lunch counters in the Civil Rights Movement … If you wanted to fight the cops at Stonewall or romanticized those who occupied campus buildings against the Vietnam War … If you quote Black Panthers and benefit from their vision (free school lunches for example) … If you pictured yourself standing against the social and cultural mores that justified slavery … Well, here we are again.

If you have privilege to spend, consider this your call.

Because like those historical moments — now sanitized and canonized — we will be answering for this genocide to ourselves and future generations. Take a moment to consider what your answer will be.

All of the Sea-Tac 46 were charged with both disorderly conduct and failure to disperse — dual charges that go beyond what people arrested for peaceful protest usually face. Many of the protestors were never given public defenders, and the case was profoundly mismanaged by SeaTac prosecutors, who systematically disregarded the defendants' rights to legal representation, due process, and speedy trials. We spent months fighting those charges together and ultimately beat them — thanks to the support of community members who campaigned for dismissal, pro- and low-bono lawyers who volunteered to work our cases, and family members and friends who supported us through countless court appearances.

I mention all of this to acknowledge that while getting arrested for Palestine has been a hard experience — one that has changed me forever — it has also uncovered new depths to the layers of my privilege (race, class, age, status, profession, and citizenship to name some). It has been an incredibly uncomfortable experience. But one through which I've also been well supported.

Ultimately, I'm grateful for the opportunity to take my commitment out of the realm of the polite, white Seattle liberal and into the realm of those who know that our safety and humanity are intertwined.

It has been a chance to show people — those of us who linked arms that day, those who joined us from their cars, those who watched from an uneasy distance … and maybe you — that we can take risks for our values. That we can be both disruptive and loving in the name of a different way of living. That we can be both gentle and tough in how we fight for that vision.

Of all my experiences that day, I think that my time spent on the side of the freeway in zip ties will stand out most. It was a liminal moment between the vibrancy and unpredictability of direct action, and the total loss of freedom to follow. And I felt like I was a little part of that tradition I've so long admired.

My fellow protestors hummed "We Rise" — which has become a common song for Jewish activists protesting for Palestine — the harmony mingling with the rattling suitcases of the travelers we'd harried.

One group that passed us was a family — two parents and three little kids. There was a baby in arms, a toddler in a stroller, and a child old enough to walk, running to keep up. They reminded me of my family, dragging suitcases, their faces creased with stress. And they reminded me of Palestinian refugees I've seen streaming down abandoned roadways, fleeing the impending onslaught of Israel's genocidal campaign.

I felt a prick of regret, worrying for that little family and their precarious travel plans. I was ready for the parents to shoot me a dirty look or tell me again that nobody cared.

Instead, they stopped in front of us.

"We are proud of you!" shouted the father. "We would have walked 10 times this long!"

The cops noticed and started ushering them away. But not before the oldest child shot his skinny little arm up in a fist toward the blue sky.

"FREE PALESTINE!" he yelled.

"FREE PALESTINE!" we shouted back, as loud as we could.

The South Seattle Emerald is committed to holding space for a variety of viewpoints within our community, with the understanding that differing perspectives do not negate mutual respect amongst community members.

The opinions, beliefs, and viewpoints expressed by the contributors on this website do not necessarily reflect the opinions, beliefs, and viewpoints of the Emerald or official policies of the Emerald.

Sarah Stuteville is a writer, podcaster, and therapist with a background in international journalism. Her work focuses on feminism, social justice, mental health, media, parenting, and relationships. Sarah has reported from over a dozen countries — including Israel and Palestine.

📸 Featured Image: A protestor holds up a sign calling for a free Palestine outside of the Boeing Military Delivery Center, across the street from the Museum of Flight, on Nov. 8, 2023. (Photo: Susan Fried)