Life itself isn't a destination, it's a journey, and throughout one will incur ebb and flow, high and low, good and bad.
The wisdom in such duality resides in knowing that what occurs at the margins of one's life doesn't represent the totality of one's life.
Also, what occurs in between such margins isn't the totality of it. It's the combination and balance of such life experiences which
 determines the totality of one's existence. That's a calculation which no one human can accurately assess, even ones own self,
unless they're there from the alpha beyond the omega of ones allotted period on earth.

My name is Obadyah Ben-Yisrayl. I currently reside on Indiana's death row where I've been for the last seven (7) years.
From my birth, throughout my childhood and teen years, until now, I've experienced a plethora of sensory experiences,
along with peace which spiritual enlightenment brings. The pendulance swing has been extreme to say the least.
To accurately gauge the man I've become it's necessary to turn the hands of time back to the start of my journey to examine the years leading up to now.
I was born Christopher Dwayne Peterson January 20, 1969, to Rose Cannon and Cleveland Peterson. My mother always said that I was a very active intelligent baby.
I began walking at eight (8) months and was spoiled by my maternal grandmother. I was very young when she passed away,
but I can still remember the void I felt as a child when she was no longer there. My mother, her father,
and her brothers were the early influences and stabilizing family in my life. My sister and brother, although extremely close to me in age,
weren't at that time very close to me as brothers and sister typically are. We're inseparable now, but such was our childhood.
Something made me different from them, and my speculations as to why would be confirmed when I was seventeen (17).
With hindsight, there were many occurrences that gave validity and cause to such speculation but that comes later.
I loved school until the fourth grade. By the time I'd reach kindergarten, I knew all that was being taught, colors, numbers, A,B,C's etc.
My teachers name was Ms. Singer. In the fourth grade, I can recall, being called a liar for the first time by a teacher.
My teacher asked the class to do a book report and I chose Larry Bird. I was excited about the project and determined to do the best out of the class.
I read that book two times and did a detailed fourth grade book report. In front of my whole class, I read my report.
In one portion I'd mentioned that Mr. Bird as married.   My teacher stopped me and replied that I was making up facts,
and questioned whether I'd read the book. I replied that I had and she told me that I was lying; challenging me to find the reference to
Mr. Bird being married. The next day I brought the book to class and showed the information. I'll never forget her reaction and response.
She looked at me as if I'd insulted her and gave a snide half hearted apology out of hearing shot of the student class.
She humiliated me in front of my classmates the day before by calling me a liar. That was the day I began hating school.
I stopped believing that adults were always right, and learned that they never liked being shown they're wrong.

My father Cleveland was in the Army so we traveled a bit. I never had a problem meeting new friends. Cleveland was always distanced from the family.
He used to drink and gamble his checks away. One time we couldn't afford a proper Thanksgiving meal. At that time in my life those American
holidays were special events. We had canned cream corn and neck bones. One evening my mother packed us up and we moved back to Gary from Kansas.
We moved in with our whole family practically in one house. There was a lot of love in that house and it was the first time I saw what an actual family was.

We used to go to Mississippi to family reunions to meet our extended tribes people. We got to see another mode of life in the country.
We got to see hospitality and a unity inconceivable today. We later left my grandfather's house and moved in with my mother's sister Joyce.
Eventually, with dogged determination, sacrifice, and much hard work, my mother got us our own place. Some time after moving out,
Joyce's apartment caught on fire. Joyce and her two daughters got out, but her son Michael died in the fire. He was only four or five.
We eventually moved to Colonial Gardens projects in Glen Park. We lived out there when I first started to 90 to school and this was our second venture.
I had the same set of friends from the area I had when we were there the first time. I was between 9-11 years old. When I was 12 or 13
 my mother had my name changed to Peterson to coincide with my brother's and sister's last name. Prior to that I carried my mothers maiden name of Christopher Cannon.
My mother cried and hugged me real tight and I couldn't figure out why she was to overjoyed with this. By this time a teenager in Jr. High School,
I ran track and played sax in the marching band. Although poor, my mother paid in installments to buy me a brand new Alto Saxophone.
I became the best in my class at playing and I developed a love and true understanding of the science of music. My mother worked in a
cleaners and used to have to leave me, my sister, and brother home by ourselves until she got off work. We had a great deal of responsibilities with cooking,
cleaning, washing clothes, and taking care of one another, but we were, much more than not, worthy of such responsibility.
Those opportunities were windows to extend one's boundaries, sometimes too far. I'd invite girls over and experiment with sex.
I lost my virginity at age thirteen (13). My friends and I would go to house parties and drink cheap wine. We'd also go to the skating rink.
Not long after my fifteenth birthday my friends and I tried marijuana for the first time. I liked it but couldn't afford it so we didn't indulge all that often.
 In its stead we lifted wine from the local grocery store, but only when a house party was on the rebel itinerary. When I was sixteen (16)
my mother got remarried to Tony Forrest and we moved in with him. This was an ascent to the middle class from years of lumpen proletariatism,
however the mentality remained with me and I'd go hang out with my friends in the 'jects" as we called them (Projects).
One day I came home to find my mother and her sister Joyce arguing and from nowhere my aunt shouted to my mother, at the time she saw me,
to tell me who my real father was. I was seventeen and was just finding out that the man I always knew as my father really wasn't.
My mother told me about my real father and explained everything, but I was hurt, angry, and confused. That revelation explained the feelings
of being different from my brother and sister, the name change, and the other incidents occurring when I was younger.
In high school, I became very popular and was either known, or known of by virtually the whole school. Acceptance became important to me.
It aided me superficially to accept myself having always felt distant, inadequate and self conscious. To me, school held little to no interest.
Although I could've held my own academically with any student had I applied myself, I saw no reason to. By that I mean nothing I was
supposed to be learning related to me or my peers. I'd noticed from Jr. High School, and with hindsight to elementary school,
that nothing being taught had to do with me as a person, or my experiences. People I could relate to and identify with were conspicuously
 absent from the curriculum, books, and the class room as teachers. I participated with delight though in school social functions.
The prom, dances, games and anything else happening I was part of. All that fun distracted me and I soon learned that
I wouldn't graduate with my class if I didn't attend night school. My mother was extremely upset, especially after spending so much money on my senior prom.
I vowed to go to night school and earn the two and a half (2 1/2) credits needed to get my diploma. I fulfilled my promise and graduated.
I'd made a commitment to the U.S. Marine Corp in 1986 and was on the delayed entry program. In the five month interim before
I'd leave for the corps I stayed in Georgia with my uncle and worked in the airport. This was the first time I'd been away from home practically on my own,
 and I enjoyed it responsibly. Prior to leaving for Georgia I'd learned that my fiance at that time was pregnant with our child.
I returned to Gary in late April and left for bootcamp May 5,1988.
I'd chosen the Marines because it presented the biggest challenge for me and I needed the discipline.
I was also lured by the dress blues.

It's said that without a foe a soldier never knows his strength, and thought must be developed through the exercise of strength. Bootcamp proved to be that foe.
 That challenge of my strength and catalyst for independent thought. It was the most exhaustive mental and physical experience of my young life.
All that I surmised it would be it was, and more! it taught me discipline, respect, patience, and showed me that anything I wanted to accomplish I could.
During my final three weeks of bootcamp I received word from home that I had a son. He was born on July 10,1988.
He was premature by three months and upon his birth developed intestinal problems. He was taken to Children's Memorial Hospital in Chicago.
Three weeks after 1 learned if my son's birth, I was a marine. The since of accomplishment was overwhelming,
and for the first time in my life I was truly satisfied and sure of myself. I'd committed myself to something and accomplished it.
Upon arriving home for my thirty day leave, I noticed the proud look in everyone's eyes, especially my little brother's.
He'd eventually enlist with the marines also. My mother drove me, my fiance, and my aunt from the airport to the hospital to see my new baby boy.
No one could've prepared me for the emotional shift I would experience at first seeing my son. I broke totally down in tears.
My son was practically small enough to hold in one hand. He had tubes in his nose, running from what appeared every part of his little body,
and all types of gadgets on him. It seemed as though the myriad tubing and gadgets outweighed him. That experience was indescribable. I left the room to regroup.
 After my leave was over, I headed for school and then to Cuba where I'd stay for a year. While there my grandfather passed away.
I was granted a leave to attend his funeral. While home, I continued to visit my son, but not as much as I should've.
He was tentatively scheduled to come home January 28,1989, the same day of my grandfather's funeral. While attending that funeral a
phone call came urging my fiance and I to immediately come to the hospital where my son was. He'd developed complications of the lungs for being on a respirator so long.
 Arriving at the hospital we were told that the only thing keeping our son breathing was the respirator, and that he wasn't alive otherwise.
We'd have to decide whether to take him off the respirator or not.  At age nineteen (19) we had to make the decision to remove him from the machine.
I held my deceased child for over an hour after he'd passed thinking all sorts of thoughts. I ended up burying my grandfather and
losing my first child the same day. January 28th would always be significant in my mind because two years later on that day,
I was arrested and subsequently sentenced to death. The passing of my son will forever weigh heavy on my heart, but I believe
his spirit resides with me and aids me in enduring the pain of imprisonment. After my son's funeral I returned to Cuba where it was work as usual.
No time to adequately grieve and mourn the passing of my son and grandfather. According to Marine dogma, we weren't suppose to feel pain.
We were suppose to apply the formula improvise, adapt, and overcome to all experience no matter the conditions. I moved on simply repressing my feelings,
 and that would affect me the remainder of my time in the service, until my spiritual awakening.
It would serve as the catalyst for my eventual A.W.O.L. from the marines. After Cuba I was stationed in North Carolina where
I'd eventually become further disillusioned with the service. After some factionalist incidents and falsely being accused of stealing a
bracelet which I produced a receipt for, I was intent on getting out. l'd also began reading the Koran and becoming familiar with Islam.
I eventually asked for a discharge and spoke with the base chaplain informing him I'd become a conscientious objector.
This swayed them none and I was denied. In May of 1990 I went A.W.O.L. and returned to Gay, IN.
The cursory examinations of Islam only served to plant the seed of consciousness but I didn't nurture or cultivate it and my consciousness didn't flourish.
The lessens weren't internalized and the little I did know wasn't enough to combat the lumen colonial mentality and alluring
fast life activities that are often attractive to such a mentality. By the summer of 1990 I was an initiate in the fast lane, and on Jan.28, 1990,
I was arrested and subsequently sentenced to death twice.

The journey into the abyss of this hollowed abattoir has been one of great revelation. I'd always had a television based,
romanticized perception of what deathrow would be, but it's a far cry from anything one could ever conceive in the mind for scripting of some movie,
unless you've been here!  Upon my entering the death row unit I encountered men who were more intelligent than any I'd ever known personally.
They were rational and respectful to one another, as well as eager to aid me in aiding myself. The outside world has been conditioned to
view us as societies demons but I see through eyes with no motive but to see clearly. I see the humanity in these men,
and the willing surrender to knowledge and wisdom to be quantum leaps beyond the demagogue colored perception society has of them,
I began a comprehensive study of history and ancient civilizations, psychology, and philosophy science and metaphysics,
and a variety of eastern based spiritualities and disciplines. My books have become my refuge, and my spirituality my foundation.
I've leaned more truth and grown more in the last eight and a half (8 1/2) years then in the previous twenty-two (22) years of my life.
I've seen the workings of politics, jurisprudence, and the malicious inhumanity of mankind up close and personal,
and I've grow in compassion for the affected populace as a result. One cannot view the degree of suffering that
I have and not develop the deep latent senses of compassion once originally inherent in Gods children. 
I've been here through four executions, three of which were carried out upon men of exceptional character, principle, and integrity.
Men of great spirit who aided me to cultivate my mind and spirit. One lesson's been clear to me; people can and do change, and often for the better !
No one is beyond redemption. The creator and my family have served as pillars of strength for me to embrace.
My three children have remained the driving force behind my unyielding quest for truth, justice, equality, and liberation.
The visiting room is often the class room where I provide them with the mental and spiritual tools to build their minds, body's and souls.
To build their temples of principle and character. My experiences are their lessons in perseverance, courage, temperance, and patience.
I tell them that of wealth, honor and wisdom, one should be a lover of wisdom above all else.
They'll know that only by enduring protracted struggle can one be truly victorious in their purpose.
They love me as the daddy that's always been there, because in spirit I have. My voice was constant throughout their lives,
and my word was comforting in cards and letters I send them throughout the year. My life hasn't been pristine and neither has any other,
yet the detritus from the shattering of glass houses is perpetually being strewn about the macabre mosaic of life, and power is conceding nothing!
Not even truth! My life is worth of living, and I've found redemption in my heart through the undying grace and goodness of the creator.
That redemption comes as a result of absolution being payed for karma incurred as a foolish youth.

The journey I've traveled has been one of enduring hardship at times, and  illumination at others.
It's the union of these opposites that creates harmony in life. I long to live as that's the infinite purpose and desire of the spirit.
My passion for life comes from the experience and realization that the best things in life are the simple ones we often take for granted.
There's nothing I wouldn't give to sit in grass beholding the hole sky unobstructed by a ghastly wall.
I'd love to read Kahlil Gibran's the "Prophet" in a setting as beautiful as the majesty of his poems.
We've all traveled varied paths, experiencing many odysseys throughout. At the ends of those paths our lives must invariably have the same destination.
That destination is the eventual source of all!

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Last updated December 28, 2010  Canadian Coalition Against the Death Penalty
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