When I heard that H. Rap Brown died, it hit deep. He wasn’t just a name from the history books — for so many of us, he was a symbol of rage, hope, and relentless resistance. He died November 23, 2025 at 82 years old, inside a federal prison hospital in Butner, North Carolina.
Born Hubert Gerold Brown in Baton Rouge, Louisiana in 1943, Brown became a fierce voice in the 1960s Black Power movement. Rising to lead the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) and later serving as minister of justice for the Black Panther Party, he challenged the very foundations of a country built on oppression. He didn’t sugarcoat truth — he famously said that “violence is as American as cherry pie,” warning that Black folks might have to fight fire with fire if justice continued to be denied.
But Brown’s life was more than protest and speeches. After a 1970s stint in prison for robbery, he converted to Islam, changed his name to Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin, and tried to channel his energy into healing and building. He moved to Atlanta, opened a grocery/health-food store, became an imam — serving his community, preaching against drugs and despair, trying to transform pain into purpose.
Then in 2000, tragedy struck. Deputies arrived outside his home with a warrant; shots were fired, one deputy died. Al-Amin was convicted of murder in 2002 and sentenced to life in prison. Supporters say the trial was deeply flawed — pointing to withheld evidence, inconsistent testimonies, and possible targeting because of his past activism. Over the decades, his family and allies fought for justice, claiming he was framed.
He spent his final years behind bars, moved to a medical facility in 2014 after a cancer diagnosis — and never regained his freedom.
I’m not here to paint him as perfect. His rhetoric was fiery. His path controversial. But I am here to say this: H. Rap Brown / Jamil Al-Amin lived his convictions. He dared to speak truth to power when many of us stayed silent. He tried, at different moments in his life, to be rebel, healer, spiritual guide — and even though he died inside a cell, he never silenced his fight.
In his death, we’re reminded that the prison system — with its neglect, illness, slow violence — often becomes the final arbiter on Black lives that dared to resist. We owe him more than a headline. We owe him the honesty of memory, the demand for justice, and the commitment to keep pushing, keep building, keep organizing.
Rest in power, brother. May your voice echo in every corner where freedom is still being chased.
