Earlier this month I zipped across the eastern U.S. with three friends, bound for Washington, DC. All of us would end up in orange jumpsuits and black hoods, marching in a grim protest against the continued operation of the Guantánamo Bay detention center. A few of us would later end up thrown in jail.

Two years ago, if someone was to suggest to me that it would be a good idea to suit up in this grim attire and march out in public, I probably would have thought that person was a bit crazy. In fact, I remember the questions that flew through my head when this idea was first brought to me. “What’s the point?” “Will anybody understand?” “Isn’t this a bit over the top?”

A couple of years worth of study later and those questions no longer surface in my mind. Everything becomes much clearer when the invisible suffering of real, innocent families is revealed. As I learned, there is a reason this suffering doesn’t take place in the same broad daylight our taxes are collected. It is instead sequestered away in prisons thousands of miles away from Iowa, far out of sight because it is so blatantly awful. The point then, if I were to address my younger self, is to pull this abominable, systematic horror out of the darkness and into the light. That’s what I also told CNN, who thankfully telecast clips from the morbid vigil all across the US, reminding people that yes, indefinite detention without fair trial is still happening.

Did people understand it? Yes, though probably in varying degrees. The “Shut Down Guantánamo” sign is easy enough to comprehend, but the suspicion cast upon the detainees by the US government was likely responsible for the tidal wave of venom that came pouring out of many people’s mouths. Whether it was 42 people being dragged off to jail by the DC police for unlawful assembly, or simply a handful of people hauling a massive cross down the street in a detainee suit, passersby yelled insults, including “Fuck those sand n*ggers”, and, as one man yelled beside his wife and daughter, “Torture the fuck out of them.” It’s almost as if the thought had never crossed their minds that these people could be quite relatable, and yes, innocent.

Many people are indeed reluctant to question the US military, believing that if these guys are locked up, it must be for a very good reason. I was certainly hesitant to believe otherwise at first. After all, I have friends in the army who have told me themselves about the awful things Al-Qaeda does and as far as I knew, all of those guys in Guantánamo were from Al-Qaeda, ready to slit my throat without a second thought. But “supporting the troops” with a blind patriotism seemed nearly as unwise as killing and torturing on-call for a paycheck regardless of circumstances. Thankfully I realized that nobody has to do either, and it is that bright relief that I now wish to reveal through these seemingly extreme actions.

Organized by Witness Against Torture, around sixty people marched in orange jumpsuits and black hoods from the White House to the Supreme Court, and from there to the Capitol building. Many of us had the names of cleared-for-release prisoners pinned to our backs. Once there, a portion of the group ascended the stairs and dropped banners which read, “Broken Promises, Broken Laws, Broken Lives.” Inside, a group of participants who had arranged a tour stopped in the rotunda to hold a memorial service for Salah Ahmed Al Salami, Mani Shaman Al Utaybi, and Yaser Talal Al Zahrani – three men who were recently revealed by a US marine to have more than likely been murdered, though the United States military originally declared them suicides.

While the people dropped to their knees to pray, the police came and, unfortunately, arrested them. Simultaneously, outside we sang the names of Guantánamo prisoners who have been cleared for release but remain captive. The police arrested 42 of us, and threatened the rest of the singing group before we fell silent. I was not among those arrested, though several friends of mine were. Those arrested gave the names of cleared-for-release detainees instead of their own names, bringing them at last into a United States courtroom. DC prisoners were taken to one of two jails, one of which did not provide good access to water and both of which brought them into court chained hand and foot. After five hours of sitting before a judge, everyone was released and we made the 18-hour trip back to Iowa.

It would all have sounded a bit extreme to my 24-year-old self. But that was before I knew about Binyam Mohammed being deported by the US to Morocco where they cut his penis with a scalpel on a regular basis. It was before I knew about Dilawar, a 22-year-old peanut farmer who was tortured to death over the course of five days in Bagram, leaving his young child fatherless. It was before I knew about Ahmed Errachidi, a London chef who was held in solitary confinement for four of his five years in prison, before being released to his wife and kids who had grown up while he was being broken down.

But now I know, and I have found it is worth every hating remark, and every hour of my time to reveal to other people what I once did not know.

This last week marked the eighth year of the Guantánamo detention center’s existence, a sad event which I am remembering by giving a presentation at a local church, and writing letters of encouragement to detainees.

This is a grim topic to say the least, but a very important one.