The Book
A Quaker Journal of Resistance
What Joseph Olejak saw became a journal of confinement and witness: inhumane conditions, the lives of the men inside, a system that kept pulling them back, and the Inner Light that called Joseph to bear witness and encourage others.
Weekend outline
The book moves weekend by weekend through Joseph’s sentence, beginning with the physical facts of jail and widening into questions of conscience, poverty, addiction, punishment, and human dignity.
Joseph begins his sentence at Columbia County Jail and is immediately reduced to the routines of intake: search, clothing, bunk, bracelet, rules, noise, and confinement. The first weekend makes jail physical before it becomes reflective.
Joseph begins to feel how jail reaches beyond the person sentenced. He reflects on his children, lost work, financial pressure, prison food, and the way punishment radiates into family and livelihood.
Joseph begins meeting men not as abstractions but as people with stories, charges, families, fears, and ways of surviving jail. The weekend widens his attention from his own sentence to the lives around him.
Pain, illness, and poor conditions become part of Joseph’s jail experience. His own body becomes a measure of what jail does to people whose health needs are often handled with indifference.
Joseph’s role begins to shift. He is no longer only enduring jail; he is listening, observing, writing, and becoming a witness to the men, routines, humiliations, humor, and contradictions around him.
Men begin turning to Joseph for help with pain, injury, and the body. His identity as a healer enters the jail, raising deeper questions about care, addiction, untreated suffering, and what the system fails to address.
Joseph confronts his own assumptions about Anton and begins to see more clearly the dignity and possibility inside the men around him. The Quaker idea of the Inner Light becomes less abstract and more immediate.
Joseph witnesses the close pressure of jail life: surveillance, forced exposure, racial tension, violence, and small attempts at care. The weekend shows how quickly confinement turns ordinary human needs into conflict.
This weekend takes the form of a letter to Bobby. Joseph names the better self he sees in him and connects that recognition to the Inner Light, offering support beyond the walls of the jail.
At the one-third mark, Joseph is tired, feverish, and emotionally low. Reading Nelson Mandela brings him back to the central question of conscience: what can a person pay for, and what must a person refuse?
Boredom opens space for fear, debt, insomnia, and anxiety about the life waiting outside jail. Through Catch-22, Joseph frames his refusal as a sane response to violence, even as the system treats resistance as disorder.
Jail settles into routine: meals, cleaning, reading, chess, television, counts, and lights out. Joseph watches time lose its usefulness and names the emotional fallout incarceration sends into families and bodies.
Joseph reaches the halfway point of his sentence and May 18 becomes visible on the horizon. Men now recognize him as “Doc,” and he begins to understand that one real connection may matter even inside a much larger system.
Jacob’s story brings heroin withdrawal, loneliness, faith, military trauma, and untreated suffering into focus. Joseph comes to see addiction less as criminality alone and more as disease, pain, and abandonment needing treatment.
Stuart trusts Joseph with a story of childhood trauma and addiction. The weekend deepens the book’s concern with shame, masculinity, silence, healing, and the need for a future stronger than the past.
Still in pain, Joseph turns to yoga and breathwork in D-Dorm. Juan joins him, and a strange, tender scene unfolds: two men in jail clothes practicing stillness, listening, and healing under fluorescent lights.
Joseph’s role as “Doc” continues, while jail church, yoga, race, medical neglect, and restorative justice begin to converge. The weekend shows spiritual practice spreading outward and raises sharper questions about due process and punishment.
The jail’s heat, arbitrary rules, and probation stories reveal a system that keeps men cycling back. Joseph also feels the prison-industrial complex enter his own life through lost work, denied opportunity, debt, and bureaucratic failure.
After sending DVDs to Anton, Joseph is moved to a filthy E-Block cell and struggles with anger. There he meets Max, a Jewish Vietnam veteran, and the weekend opens into religious freedom, war trauma, probation, race, grief, and the law of love.
In a new block, Joseph receives candy, cleans a shower on principle, and listens to Bigs, Moore, Quinn, Miran, and men in holding. Their stories reveal generosity, fatherhood, violence, childhood trauma, profiling, withdrawal, and the wounds jail receives but rarely heals.
In a quieter block, Joseph meets Dean, a roofer whose untreated back injury led from pain medication to heroin and a grand larceny charge. The weekend widens into a reflection on pharmaceuticals, low wages, corporate profit, debt, and the systems that profit when people fail.
Joseph meets Paco, whose tattoos first trigger assumptions but turn out to speak of family and faith. The weekend moves through family pictures, dominoes, yoga, Joseph’s refusal to lock himself in, and Dorian’s handmade Easter basket — a small act of hope later erased by the jail.
Juan weighs drug court against state prison, and Joseph urges him to honor his word. Around him, stories from Cooper, CJ, Dean, and Dorian reveal addiction, low-wage work, family strain, and the way jail starts to feel normal in some lives.
In H-Block, Joseph finds quiet, a cardboard heart, a Lou Reed lyric, and room for reflection. He also sees the same failures sharpen: poor food, untreated illness, illegal searches, denied bail, and Juan losing drug court after the state treats the Hudson drug raid as collective punishment.
In I-Block, Joseph sees racist symbols, parole violations, dangerous labor, child-support debt, dirty laundry, and addiction shaped by pain and work. The weekend shows how poverty and bureaucracy keep men cycling through jail while small acts of dignity still matter.
Joseph’s final weekend brings one more look at jail’s failures: a broken toilet, untreated pain, parole violations, and men forced to fight for basic care. On May 18, 2014, after books have passed from hand to hand and the men say goodbye, Joseph walks out for the last time.
Weekend 19
Joseph talks to Max, a Jewish Vietnam veteran who fought for his country before being betrayed by its courts.
Next morning, I’m bleary-eyed and every bone in my neck and back aches. Without a proper pillow to support my neck, it ended up being craned all night. The result is a wicked stiff neck. This morning, I’m dealing with a bit of spasm on the left side.
I hear: “Hey! You the doc? Get up. It’s time for chow.”
I pick the sand out of my eyes and make my way to the door to collect my tray of Rice Krispies, dry toast, coffee and banana. I’m in no mood to talk to anyone, however Max comes over and strikes up a conversation.
In a way, he sort of reminds me of my dad. He’s got that same sort of Hell’s Kitchen swagger my father has. I get the feeling that Max came up through some shit and made something of his life, as my dad did.
“If you don’t mind me asking — what are you doing in here? You seem like an educated man.”
He glances down at the book in my hand. “Not everyone comes in with books on the neurobiology of stroke.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, I bet that is a rarity.”
“They told me you’re a doctor. What sort?”
“Chiropractor.”
“Ah. And if you don’t mind me asking, what landed you in this shit hole?”
“I’m a war protester. I decided not to pay federal taxes, as a protest against the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Okay!” His face brightens. “I see we have a man of principle here!”
“Yes. This is where principles get you.” We both have a good laugh.
Max takes a more serious tone: “All kidding aside, if you don’t have principles, what are you? Just another schmuck drifting through life with his head up his ass.”
Max has some pretty strong opinions and since I just met him, I’m not going to say anything to cross him. I’m the new guy in town and I don’t know the lay of the land yet.
“How about you?” I ask.
“Felony assault with a deadly weapon. I shot a guy who came on my land with a gun and was shooting at my dog. I spent five years upstate. Now I’m here on a probation violation.”
“For what?”
“I’ve been accused of assaulting a guy who owed me money. I ‘illegally’” — he uses his fingers to show quotation marks — “entered my own rental property to collect rent which was three months late.”
“I’m beginning to get the idea that you’re not somebody to mess around with!”
“Let me put it this way. I’m a Jew. My people have been screwed over too many times. Don’t fucking steal from me and don’t fuck with my family. I loved that dog.”
“Did you kill the man you shot at?”
He laughs. “No, I just taught him a lesson. You should have seen the look on his face when I pumped two slugs in his legs. He looked at me holding the gun. He looked at his bloody legs. He looked at me again. And then it finally dawned on him that he fucked with the wrong guy. You think he’ll ever come on my land again?”
“This might seem like a stupid question, but if he was on your land with a gun, shooting at your dog — why did they prosecute you instead of him?”
“It’s this bullshit New York law called Article 32. In New York, you have an obligation to retreat even if some crazed person is shooting your dog and you’ve got bullet holes in your house.”
“What?”
“Crazy, right? If I was in Texas or Florida, he’d be the one sitting in jail and I’d be with my grandchildren.” The only two places that don’t have the so-called Castle Law — a reference to the Middle Ages, a man may protect his castle — are DC and New York State.
“What would you do?” Max wants to know.
“If you’re looking for agreement, I think you’re asking the wrong person,” I respond. “I’m a Quaker. Quakers don’t really use violence to solve problems.”
“Oh, like the Oatmeal guy?”
“Yup. Quakers believe in non-violence. It’s been that way since 1640.”
“I never met a Quaker before. So whatta you guys believe?”
“There is no dogma for Quakers like you find in Catholicism or Judaism. The only real rule, if you want to call it that, is that Quakers listen for the word of God in quiet contemplation. There are Bible-based Quakers, like me, and there are others who are not. It’s really a big mash-up of people who only have one thing in common — they are listening for the word of God.”
“So there’s no minister?”
“Nope. The meeting as a whole is the clergy. So, for example, if someone gets married, the entire meeting signs the marriage certificate.”
“Cool. I like that. Jews are very different. We’re all about laws. We’ve got like six hundred of them. The guys in here think I’m nuts cuz I mumble in my cell with my yarmulke on. The drug addicts in here don’t even know what Hebrew sounds like. One guy thought I was a Muslim. How funny is that?”
Then Max wants to know: “Do the guards ever hassle you as a Quaker?”
“No. I don’t see why they would. I just sit in my cell with my eyes closed in prayerful meditation.”
“They give me and a bunch of Jewish guys upstate all kinds of problems. They wouldn’t let us hold Seder or celebrate any of the other high holy days. I remember this one fat fuck up there who was so ignorant — I told him: ‘We’re having our celebration … you’re gonna have to break it up … and when you do, I’ll sue your stupid ass.’ He did. And I did.”
“And?”
“The case is pending in Federal Court for the New York State Department of Corrections violating my right to exercise my freedom of religion. I learned an awful lot from those jailhouse lawyers up there.”
Max wants to know about my situation: “I’m guessing you have a similar case?”
“Not really,” I say. “There is no basis that I know of for suing the government for jailing you for not paying taxes because you don’t support war on First Amendment grounds. I believe they were lenient on me because of my faith and other factors like my cooperation and my family situation.”
I ask him: “Why’d you shoot that guy instead of talking it out?”
“You gonna talk when someone is shooting at your dog? Your house? Are you fucking crazy? I did what I was trained to do.”
“Excuse me — trained to do?”
“I’m a marine. Once a marine, always a marine.”
“Is that how you got that nasty scar on your forearm?”
“Vietnam: 75 clicks north of Saigon on the Mekong River on a night patrol. I was part of a team called the night predators.”
“So what happened?”
“I got dropped by helo with a team of three guys. There were six teams total along the river at various points. We fanned out about a mile from each other along the river while a recon team was five miles upriver looking for Viet Cong. If they flushed them out, we were supposed to be the mop-up crew.”
“So you’re walking on the riverbank…”
“No. I’m wading in about three feet of water. There’s weeds, I’ve got a mini flashlight in my mouth, and I can see about two-three feet in front of me. It’s pitch black all around. I hear a ripple of water behind me and turn, and before I know it, there’s a gook with a machete swinging for me. I raise my arm to protect my neck and he takes muscle, bone, and nerves out of my right forearm. Before he has a chance to go at me again, I swing my M-16 around with my left arm, pull the trigger, and it’s over.”
“Were you okay?”
“Okay? Hell no. I’m bleeding all over the place and bits of skin and muscle are hanging off my arm.”
“Could you call for medical help?”
“No. I’ve got no radio and it’s radio silence until the pick-up point in four hours.”
“So you’re totally on your own? Did you have any medical supplies?”
“Yes, on my own. I have some Styptic powder in my pack which is supposed to stop bleeding, but I’ve cut an artery and it’s not looking good. I’m losing a lot of blood. I pour the powder on and wrap it the best I can with one hand.”
“You must have been in a lot of pain, eh?”
“I never had pain like that in my life. It felt like someone was trying to rip my arm off. We were given morphine in our med-packs and oh, yeah, I took a shot of morphine. Luckily, I was not one of those guys who got hooked on that shit. I smoked a little weed over there, but there were guys who turned into junkies. Lots of guys used the syringes in the med-packs.”
“I bet you saw plenty of drug stuff over there.”
“On a troop ship on the way home, I was down in stowage smoking with a bunch of guys and we pass by the storage locker for ship’s captain. I see this big tarped thing on a palette and I’m curious what’s in there. So I pull back the tarp a little and use my jack knife to slit the plastic. Guess what’s in there?”
“Do I want to know?”
“A bale of marijuana.”
“I’d heard a lot of drugs were smuggled back from Vietnam. I guess that’s how they did it.”
“That’s one way. In coffins was the other.”
“So getting back to your injury … how’d you get out of there?”
“When I don’t show at the rendezvous point, my team comes looking for me. By that time, I’ve lost four and a half quarts of blood and I’m really dizzy and can’t stand up. They hump me a mile and a half back to the helo pick-up site.”
“Did you ever wonder if you were gonna make it out of there?”
“No man left behind is the code of the corps. I knew I’d get out of there, I just wasn’t sure if I was going be alive!”
“Where did you go for treatment?”
“First Okinawa and then to Bethesda Naval Hospital.”
“How long did it take to get your hand function back?”
“I had like five surgeries and then seven months of grueling daily rehab. They had me squeezing balls and pushing my hand deep into sand and then making a fist. The doctor that put me back together said there was chips of bone missing, shredded tendons, and a bunch of muscle gone.”
Max has a zipper tattoo that runs from his elbow to his wrist. It is there to try and make that ugly scar look better. The zipper is open because that wound is still not healed. He has some loss of function in his right arm.
“Max, can I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure.”
“Did you suffer from PTSD from that event?”
“For two years, I had bad dreams. I’d wake up in the night thinking I was being attacked.”
“How about the shooting business that put you in here? Was any of that a post-traumatic reaction?”
Max looks down. He pauses. Lifts his head and looks me right in the eye. “You can take the marine out of Vietnam, but you can never take the marine out of the man. What can I say? They trained me to shoot when under fire. And now I’m caught up in this Article 32 law.”
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About Joseph Olejak
Joseph Olejak is a convinced Quaker who chose not to participate in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan by willfully refusing to pay income tax. Having come to the understanding that there is that of God in all people, it became impossible to lend support for the Middle East wars by paying income tax.
After serving time for his peace witness, Joseph Olejak now works on peace and justice issues within the Old Chatham Quaker Meeting.
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