There are objects in an archive which carry history in an obvious way. Photographs. Legal papers. Personal belongings. Documents that tell us where someone was, what happened, and when.

Then there are objects that carry a different kind of weight entirely.

At the Julian Assange Archive, we are currently preserving and documenting approximately 50,000 letters sent to Julian Assange during his years in the Ecuadorian Embassy and later in Belmarsh Prison. Many of these letters reached Julian. They were read, kept, and survived alongside him through some of the most difficult years of his life.

But there is another collection.

A collection that never fulfilled its purpose.

Among the materials entrusted to the Archive are sealed bags from HMP Belmarsh bearing red and yellow labels marked “DO NOT ISSUE”.

Inside them are letters Julian never received. Letters he never opened, instead someone else opened them and decided that he will not get them.

Letters which, to this day, remain unseen by their intended recipient, unseen by Julian himself.

Standing in front of these bags is an unexpectedly emotional experience. They are not simply pieces of correspondence. They are evidence of thousands of individual human beings reaching out across prison walls.

Someone sat at a kitchen table and wrote those words.

Someone believed that a message of encouragement, solidarity, concern, friendship or hope might somehow make its way into a prison cell.

Yet there are these letters - in these sealed bags - never arrived.

Belmarsh is a place built around control. Movement is controlled. Access is controlled. Communication is controlled. Every aspect of daily life exists within systems designed to regulate contact with the outside world.

The bags sitting in our Archive are physical reminders of that reality.

What strikes us most is not what is written inside the letters, because for the most part we do not yet know.

It is the simple fact that they exist at all.

Thousands of people cared enough to write. They refused to allow silence to become the final word.

The letters remained where they had been stopped.

For years they sat in storage within Belmarsh Prison itself, long after the moment for which they were originally intended had passed. They waited there through the final years of Julian’s imprisonment, through legal battles, appeals and uncertainty.

Now, following Julian release, these bags have found their way to the Julian Assange Archive in Dessau.Their journey is not the one their authors imagined.But it is a journey nonetheless.What was once withheld is now preserved.What was once hidden is now acknowledged.

What was once simply stored has become part of the historical record.

As archivists, we often speak about preserving documents. Yet what we are really preserving are human connections. Every envelope represents a person who cared enough to act. Every letter carries evidence of solidarity offered without any guarantee that it would ever be received.

That matters.

Over the coming years these materials will be carefully registered, documented, conserved and preserved alongside the wider collection. They will become part of a permanent historical record dedicated not only to Julian Assange himself, but also to the extraordinary global community that stood beside him throughout his imprisonment.

One day researchers, journalists, historians and ordinary visitors will encounter these bags and ask what they are.

The answer will be simple.

These are the letters that never reached Julian Assange.

And our responsibility is to ensure that the voices contained within them are not lost a second time.

Warm regards,

Manja
For Julian Assange Archive e.V

It arrives in cardboard boxes.

With tape across the edges. A handwritten address. Corners softened by travel. For a moment, the parcel sits on our table before we open it.

Inside there might be a folded T-shirt still carrying the memory of rain from a vigil a washed out print showing years of dedication.

A banner creased from being held for hours in a public square. A book with notes in the margins. A script. A sticker designed late at night at someone’s kitchen table. A letter written carefully, deliberately, because the writer believed words still mattered.

When we open these boxes, we are not opening packages.

We are opening acts of devotion to Julian. To truth. To freedom.

Carmen and I were part of the vigils for Julian for years. We stood in the cold. We stood when the crowd was small. We stood when cameras were absent. We know what it means to hold a banner for hours and wonder if anyone notices.

So when material arrives here, we do not see “items”.

We see commitment.

We see stubborn hope.

We see people who refused to be silent.

Every piece that reaches the Julian Assange Archive is unpacked carefully. Not only because it might be fragile — but because it carries so much dedication from the people who send it to us and trust us taking care of them now.

We photograph each object properly and systematically. We register it in our digital archive. It receives its own catalogue number — its own identity within this growing body of memory. We record where it came from: which city, which group, sometimes even which vigil.

Then it is placed on our shelves.

Each city has its section. Each action group its place. Everything is recorded in our database so that nothing disappears into anonymity. When we need something — for research, for documentation, for exhibition — we can find it immediately.

But this is not about administration.

It is about respect.

To archive something properly is to say:

You were not invisible.

Your effort mattered.

Your presence is part of history.

The shelving in our storage space is filling steadily. Each new arrival brings hours of careful work — documenting, cross-checking, registering, placing.

Carmen oversees this process with extraordinary dedication. Every entry must align. Every photograph must match the database. The physical object and the digital record must correspond perfectly. It is detailed, concentrated work.

And we love it.

Because every T-shirt, every handmade banner, every carefully printed flyer carries more than ink and fabric. It carries someone’s time. Someone’s courage. Someone’s belief that standing up was necessary.

From a simple handwritten placard to a truck completely covered with “Free Julian Assange”, this archive holds accumulated care.

And care deserves care in return.

All of this work is part of something very real and very immediate.

This summer — this year — we will open our first major exhibition in Dessau/Germany.

When visitors walk through the space, they will see objects thoughtfully selected and contextualised. They will see creativity, protest, solidarity. They will see that this movement was built by ordinary people who chose to act. They will see personell items from Julian during his time in the embassy and Belmarsh Prison, Julian and his team entrusted to us.

What they will not see are the hours spent here beforehand — in storage, at the shelves, at the desk, entering catalogue numbers, aligning records, preserving materials.

The exhibition begins here.

It begins with careful hands, with systems that ensure nothing is lost, and with the conviction that this history must be visible.

Why We Are Sharing This?

With this post, we are opening a new section on our Substack: “Behind the Scenes”

From now on, we will take you with us as this work unfolds — the arrivals, the discoveries, the preparation, the scale of what is growing inside the Julian Assange Archive.

Because this archive does not belong to us alone.

It belongs to everyone who stood in the street. Everyone who created something. Everyone who believed Julian needs our support!

Preserving this material requires space. Archival supplies. Shelving. Digital infrastructure. Time. A great deal of time.

The Julian Assange Archive is a registered, charitable, tax-exempt non-profit organisation. Donations are tax-deductible within the EU according to national regulations.

But beyond that:

If you have ever stood at a vigil and wondered whether it mattered

If you have ever created something and hoped it would not disappear —

If you believe that ordinary people shape history —

Then this archive is yours too.

Your support helps us preserve these acts of courage properly. It helps us prepare this summer’s exhibition. It helps ensure that what people carried in the streets will not fade into obscurity.

If you would like to stand with us in this work, you can support the archive here:

Donate here

When history arrives in a box, we open it with care.

With your help, we make sure it remains part of the future.

Warm regards
Manja
For The Julian Assange Archive e.V.

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