Rolling Thunder - CrimethInc

olling Thunderissue number three / summer two-thousand six / a dispatch from the CrimethInc. ex-Workers’ Collectivean anarchist journal of dangerous livingWe know what a boot looks likewhen seen from underneath, we know the philosophy of boots.Soon we will invade like weeds, everywhere but slowly:the captive plants will rebel with us, fences will topple,brick walls ripple and fall, there will be no more boots.Meanwhile we eat dirt and sleep; we are waiting under your feet.When we say Attackyou will hear nothingat first.“Someday a real scum will come and wash all the reign o≠ the streets.”–Smedvig Rôbray

Dream Alone, It’s Just a Dream . . .Rolling Thunder is a biannual journal focusing on passionate living andcreative resistance in all the forms they take.It is our attempt to o¤er a wild-eyed, fire-breathing, militant periodicalthat can cover the adventures of a dissident high school student skipping classas easily as a riot that sets an embassy aflame:that neither reduces the organic impulses of revolt to inert theorynor prioritizes conventional activism over the subversive elements present in other walks of lifebut instead focuses on sharing the stories of those who step out of line(that is, of all of us, in our finest moments)and sharing the skills developed in the process(not to mention the poetry)so that many more may do soand do so more boldlyand so that liberty and community and all those other beautiful thingsmay triumph.We’re desperate to receive submissions of high caliber, of course, buteven more than that we want you to reconstruct the component partsof this magazine according to your own needs. One of the reasons wewaste so much of the space herein on illustrations is so you can rip o¤these images for your own posters, magazines, and illegal murals, andthe same goes for the text. Please, please don’t treat this magazine assomeone else’s property, the way the copyright warnings in the publicationsof your corporate enemies urge you to; you’ve got your hands onit, now do something with it.Found on the internet: “CrimethInc., sometimes known as the CrimethInc.Workers’ Collective or the CrimethInc. Ex-Workers’ Collective, is a non-hierarchicalanarchist organization that publishes anti-authoritarian writingsand videos and leaves vague hints that it is committing non-violent crimes,most of which seem to involve leafleting. CrimethInc. authors rarely sign theirdocuments, but you can check out their web page at CrimethInc.com.”Page 2 : Masthead : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Cover text from Margaret Atwood’s You Are Happy, “Song of the Worms”Printed on recycled paper with soy-based ink in Canada by Canadians.They did a great job, didn’t they?Letters and images dutifully slopped together bythe Paul F. Maul Artists’ Group.CrimethInc. Free AssociationP.O. Box 2133Greensboro, NC 27402rollingthunder@crimethinc.comwww.crimethinc.comIs it hardship that drives people to rise up against tyranny?Can you count on people to revolt when things gettoo tough?No, that hasn’t been reliable: when mere survival underthe whip is demanding enough, revolt is stifled as oftenas provoked 1 . All that speculation about Bush’s re-electionprecipitating fiercer resistance turned out to be stu≠ andnonsense—if anything, people in this country are moredemoralized now, even as life gets more di∞cult.So is it improved living conditions, which give peoplemore time and energy to consider their situation and actaccordingly? In the 1960s, when the standard of livingincreased along with leisure time, it seemed that peoplebecame more rebellious rather than less. Does that meanthe first task of would-be revolutionaries is to be reformists?Should we focus our energy on incremental improvements,so one day things will be easy enough to undertake morefundamental changes?Unfortunately, that hasn’t proved e≠ective either: many ageneration has been bought o≠ with a share of the spoils ofoppression, even of their own oppression. As often as not,reform campaigns consume more energy than they produce.Worse, whenever revolutionary struggles come close tovictory, reformists rush to hijack them, negotiating peace(i.e., a return to business as usual) between insurgents andtheir former masters—perhaps accomplishing some of thereforms that were impossible without open revolt, but atthe cost of that revolt and the greater objectives it mighthave obtained. Reform campaigns are a pressure valve; atbest, the momentum they build up can carry over into morethoroughgoing e≠orts, but it is the momentum that matters,not the material gains won—that is, unless you’re one ofthose people who thinks it’s fine and dandy for the worldto be reduced to strip mines, strip malls, and strip clubs, solong as everyone can a≠ord their wares.1 “I have often heard reformers say that the working class does not revoltbecause it is not yet wretched and starving enough, and that the soonereconomic conditions get worse the sooner they will revolt. This is anotherwrong conception of men and conditions. Take the coal miners, the mostill-paid and ill-treated wage workers in existence. To try to describe theconditions of the miners of Western Pennsylvania is to attempt the impossible.In many places grown men, with families, have not been able to earnmore than $1.50 a week. They are herded together in miserable, filthyhovels, twelve or fifteen people occupying one room; for how else can theypay the rent? Yet these men do not revolt, and never will.But when I reached the districts where they earned $5 and $6 a week, Ifound them carrying themselves with some pride and self respect, and open toideas. It is therefore an unpardonable mistake to sit with folded hands awaitingthe development of things to such a state that it will be too late to act. Menwith empty stomachs do not fight for freedom. They fight for bread; it is uselessto appeal to the overfed, but still less use to appeal to the underfed.”-Emma Goldman, “A Short Account of My Late Tour,” Solidarity, July 15, 1898What fuels insurrections, then, if not su≠ering or itsalleviation? What inspires people to make dramatic changesin their own lives and the world around them?We’re betting our bottom dollar it’s contradictions. Whenthe tension between the lives people live and the lives theywish they lived becomes too great, when they can imaginealternatives and see proof that these are possible, thingsstart to happen. When discontent is brewing but few areready for all-out civil war, perhaps the most importantthing revolutionaries can do is emphasize those tensions,intensify the contradictions with a propaganda of desirethat encourages people to demand more than the status quodelivers. People are distraught and disappointed with thedisasters of capitalism and patriarchy by the restless billion;everyone cherishes dreams of a better life that seems impossible.By publicly validating those desires and o≠ering smallexamples of how to fulfill them, we can help each othercome out of hiding.This is not particularly complicated in communitiesthat are overtly oppressed, although it is the most logisticallydi∞cult there: it requires demonstrating that someof the challenges of survival can be solved collectively andthrough collective resistance. But this approach can alsobe applied in other contexts—wherever a secretary stareslongingly out the window, wherever a lover wishes shecould speak freely about her attraction to others, wherevera grandmother languishes forgotten by her family. If ourcritique of wealth and power is accurate—that is, that theyare not as fulfilling as sharing and partnership—everyonein this society has a stake in transformation, not just thelosers of the power game.Dear reader, don’t be bashful about your desires,whether or not they make sense to those around you or fitany established revolutionary paradigm. Confide them toyour friends and family as well as to strangers. Shout themfrom the rooftops and in your school or o∞ce or church.Paint them in bold letters on every wall and on banners forparades. Proclaim them in anonymous communiqués thatcoincide with heroic acts of civic-minded sabotage. Detailthem in stolen photocopies and glossy-covered magazines.And don’t stop there—whenever, in the course of all this,you find a kindred spirit, get started immediately on makingeverything you’ve fantasized about come true.It’s a small enough world that we’ll probably run intoyou out there in the course of all this. We’ll be the oneswith crazy hair and crazier ideas, giving out fliers for thecommunity garden or running from a flaming e∞gy in themiddle of what had been a placid shopping day. Hope to seeyou soon.. . . Dream Together, It Can Be RealityRolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Getting Started : Page 3

Glossaryof Terms,part IIIBohemian—Taste makes wasteCivic Duty—It is the responsibility of everypatriot to protect her country from itsgovernmentConformity—The reward for it is—everyonelikes you but yourselfCo-op—A cooperative venture, such as ahousing project or bulk food purchasinggroup; alternately, a typographicalerror for “co-opt”Freedom of Speech—A device for conditioningpeople to speaking without acting;once so conditioned, dissidents areincapable of anything save a garrulousimpotence often characterized by overuseof internet discussion forums anda superstitious fixation on voting (seealso Free Speech Zone)Heterosexual—Straight as in “. . . and narrow”Journalism—The world’s oldest professionMediatize—According to the MicrosoftWord dictionary, “to take control ofanother country but allow its ruler toretain his or her title and have somerole in governing the country.” No shit!(see also Media)Moral Indignation—Jealousy with a haloMorale—The deciding factor between passivityand action. Too many would-berevolutionaries underestimate the importanceof morale in strategizing formilitant struggle; in fact, it is usuallya more important factor than materialresources or speculative planning.(see figure i.)Nihilist—One who has ceased to careabout anything, i.e., one who carrieson with “normal life” regardless ofwhat is going on around him (see Nihilism).Giving up hope doesn’t meanceasing to respond to the forces actingupon one—on the contrary, doing sorequires extravagant quantities of hope(see Hunger Strike, Desertion, Resistance)—butrather that one goes onresponding to them without investingany of one’s actions with meaning.Alternately, “nihilist” designates ajaded malcontent who makes a pretenseof wishing to destroy everythingand having nothing to lose. Such pretensionstypically contribute to an unsociableindividualism and dismissal ofcollective struggle—though the projectof destroying everything will demandmore widespread participation than thecarrying out of mere reforms, as mostof that “everything” is cultural ratherthan physical. A misguided nihilistmight retort that he wishes to destroyeveryone, as well—but that’s fascism,not nihilism.Granted, there are many di¤erentkinds of nihilism—many di¤erentthings one can say “are nothing,” manydi¤erent nothings to believe in.Word of the Issue: InvincibilityThe NATO bombing of Yugoslavia 1 in 1999 quickly decimatedmost of that already battered nation’s defenses. We can imaginethe soldiers in their bunkers, sitting uselessly by their antiquatedweapons while undetectable airplanes rained bombs onto fortificationsand hospitals alike. One night, one such soldier was killingtime at an anti-aircraft position when, to his surprise, a stealthbomber appeared squarely in the middle of his radar screen. Theradar system was a full half-century old; it seemed like it must1 Gentle reader, please don’t misunderstand our recounting of this tale asapproval of the Yugoslav government or military, or any government or military.Our sympathies lie with those who oppose all bombings, and with the unknownwit who painted “Dear president, you were not at home when we needed youmost” on a Belgrade wall shortly after his residence was bombed.Outside Agitator—A term of abuse, relyingon an unspoken distinction akin to theone Malcolm X drew between the slavesin the slaveholder’s house and theones in the field. The term is generallyused by lapdog radicals who hope, bysmearing others, to retain their insiderstatus, their seat at the table.Philanthropist—A capitalist suªcientlyintimidated by those he plunders toreturn some of the spoilsPopular—Appealing to the lowest commondenominator (see Democratic). Alternately,a political term meaning “of thepeople,” always hotly contested as towho, exactly, deserves the “the.”This calls to mind the predicamentof contemporary autonomist Marxistswho, feeling the anarchist movement tobe too insular a social space, distancethemselves from it, only to become asubculture within a subculture. Thereis no returning to The Masses—onceyour forays into theory have borne youfar enough away from them that you candescry them and the benefits of beingone of them, the only return is throughthe process of disillusionment, by whichone ceases to care about motivating TheMasses and thus can be reunited withthem. Likewise, there is no convertingthem—no matter how many peoplecome to join you at your outpost, fromup close they will never look as impressiveas the distant crowds do.Procrastination—We kill time and it killsus back 1Property—We thieves had our revengewhen Proudhon convicted the bourgeoisieof theft. (see figure ii.)1 “You want revolution now? I wish I had yourpatience!”be an error, but all the same, in total disbelief, he fired up theobsolete surface-to-air missile launcher and took a shot at theghost in the sky. Overhead, the US Air Force pilot, fresh fromsowing the Serbian fields with blood, was jerked out of a pleasantreverie by the shocking realization that two Soviet-era missileswere headed directly at him. He ejected just in time to avoid beingblown to bits along with his 45-million-dollar aircraft.Stealth bombers cannot be detected by modern radar systems,but the only radar still working at that anti-aircraft outpost wasfrom the 1950s, and it turns out that systems from that era detectthem easily enough. The following week posters appeared acrossYugoslavia reading, “Sorry, we didn’t know it was invisible.”Prudence—Better feel once than think twiceTerrorist—One who uses violence to intimidate,often for political purposes (e.g.,police oªcers, heads of state, and allwho aspire to replace them); alternately,a civilian brazen enough to defend herselfor others from such violenceWeather—The primary subject of conversationfor those who don’t dare trust oneanother. Populations cringing underdictatorial rule are swept by discussionsof the weather as if by a hurricane.Youth—Lack of experience in the art ofmisspending one’s life—hence the preponderanceof young people in resistanceand liberation struggles. If youthis wasted on the young, think how itwould be squandered on the old!Hierarchical Status—A measurement ofworth that makes no reference to personalqualities, behavior towards one’sfellows, or capacity for self-determination,but only takes into accounthow much power one has over otherpeople. In the death camps duringthe Holocaust, Victor Frankl hearda fellow prisoner say of a “capo” (aprisoner given life-and-death controlover other prisoners by the Nazis):“Imagine! I knew that man when hewas only the president of a large bank.Isn’t it fortunate that he has risen sofar in the world?”figure ifigure ii“Get o¤ this estate!”“What for?”“Because it’s mine.”“Where did you get it?”“From my father.”“Where did he get it?”“From his father.”“And where did his father get it?”“He fought for it.”“Well, we’ll fight you for it.”Page 4 : Getting Started : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Getting Started : Page 5

MISSIONACCOMPLISHEDWhy Bush is Counting onthe Islamic ResistanceA follow-up of sortsto “Forget Terrorism:September 11 and theHijacking of Reality,”which appeared inRolling Thunder #1Today, an internet search for “Mission Accomplished”—thetext on the banner that hung behindBush on Mayday, 2003, when he announced theend of major military operations in Iraq—turns upcountless smug editorials from liberal and left-wingpundits crowing about the bloody resistance to thesubsequent occupation. Don’t get them wrong, they’renot enthusiasts of armed struggle—they’re the firstto oppose even the mildest forms of resistance herein the US; they just love to see things go wrong fortheir political opponents. However many civilians diein autonomous as well as state military operations,the important thing is that rival demagogues get eggon their faces, as this increases the chances of powershifting into their willing hands.Anarchists, too, have largely interpreted the civilwar in Iraq as a debacle for Bush and his cronies,sometimes to the point of endorsing it without botheringabout what the insurgents are fighting for. Yes, itis healthy for every person living under others’ powerto resist; unfortunately, this does not mean that allwho do so struggle against “power over” itself. Overthe past year, the violence in Iraq has become morereminiscent of the ethnic strife of twentieth-centuryIndia than of an anti-imperialist liberation struggle.Regardless, everyone still assumes that this violenceruns counter to Bush’s designs for the area.At the risk of venturing into conspiracy theory,let’s take a moment to consider an alternate scenario.What if the Iraqi resistance is not unforeseen after all,but a potential outcome the Bush regime took intoaccount—perhaps even the one they were countingon? This seems counterintuitive, as every statementthey’ve made since the beginning of the war has givenus to believe that they expected the post-Saddamopposition to be short-lived; but if we want to avoidnasty surprises we’d better allow for thepossibility that our rulers aren’t as obtuseand inept as they seem.What, if anything, would the Bush administrationstand to gain from replacing theiron rule of Saddam Hussein over resentfulIraqis with chaos, civil war, and resentmentagainst the US? The costs of this exchangeare obvious: it makes the US government andmilitary look incompetent, thus decreasingthe Republican Party’s chances of winningthe next election, and it facilitates Islamicterrorist recruiting.But perhaps the last of these e¤ects is notso undesirable. Bush’s regime derives muchof its popularity from the feeling that thecountry is under attack; it’s hard to imaginewhere he’d be now if not for the terrorist attacksof September 11, 2001. It’s not so muchof a stretch to hypothesize that, consciouslyor not, he and his colleagues are pursuing acourse of action that will reinforce their positionby strengthening their enemies.Islamic terrorist groups are certainly bettersituated today than they were six yearsago. The September 11 attacks were thework of a small number of people, and theculmination of years of e¤ort; now, with anationwide insurgency to participate in andcull recruits from, not to mention a globalatmosphere of anti-Muslim persecution,militant Islam is steadily gaining stature.At that time, it was diªcult for such groupsto attract notice outside parts of the MiddleEast; now, they need only carry out onemajor attack a year to remain the centerof international attention. Back then, theyhad only managed to kill a few thousandpeople; tens of thousands have perishedin the ensuing wars and inquisitions—andfor terrorists, it is the net total of violenceand horror that determines their power, notthe way their losses and gains compare tothose of their adversaries.If further evidence were wanting, Hamas,one of the most militant parties in the MiddleEast, has now come to power in the Palestiniangovernment. This is the inevitableconsequence of the US government pursuinga foreign policy that gives the Palestinians noreason to trust its commitment to peace orjustice. The accession of Hamas to governmentpower gives the US and Israel furtherexcuses not to work towards peace, and inturn pushes other Arab governments to takesides against them. This feedback loop ofescalating conflict can only lead to moreand more violence.Some years ago, I saw a survivor of thePalestinian occupation speak. She maintainedthat in their air strikes and assassinations,the Israelis often deliberately targeted organizerswho were willing to negotiate towardsa peaceful resolution rather than the onesmost committed to violence 1 , presumably inorder to render diplomatic solutions impossible.If her claims are true, they correlate wellwith other policies of the Israeli rightwing, which also seem designed to provoketerrorism by stomping out any other formof resistance to Israeli injustices.We must consider the possibility thatthe long-term objective of the Bush administrationis to provoke and promote Islamicfundamentalist terrorism. This would explainthe otherwise senseless invasion of a cripplednation governed by a secular dictator loathedby Al Qaeda, and the otherwise botched handlingof the subsequent occupation, and thecurrent wrangling with Hamas and the Iraniangovernment: by destabilizing entire regions,driving Muslims across the world to rage anddespair, and closing o¤ all possibilities otherthan autonomous acts of terrorist violence,Bush and his colleagues hope to create a newadversary for the sequel to the Cold War.The Iraq war was not about oil alone;as the hawkish party, the Republicans needadversaries even more than they need worlddomination. Like the Israeli right wing, theybenefit from conflict: they know that howevermuch people complain between elections, aslong as there’s a war on voters will fall in linebehind them when it’s time to cast ballots,since the opposing party lacks the credentialsfor wartime leadership. (Hence, it would bemost convenient for the current conflict withIran to come to a head in 2007, though thismay not be possible.) By a process of naturalselection, they have come to pursuePage 6 : Commentary :Rolling Thunder, Issue Three1 Incidentally, in my years of experience in directaction, I’ve often noticed a similar trend in theUnited States: except in cases in which they expectto be able to deliver a decisive blow, policeand federal agents often go after liberal or pacifistactivists before militant ones. This holds true instreet confrontations and investigations alike: ablack bloc trashes a shopping district while thepolice are busy beating up unarmed protesters in apeaceful march; an Earth Liberation Front cell burnsdown a condominium and the FBI shows up at thedoors of aboveground student environmentalists.Perhaps this is because the security and self-defensemeasures of militant activists make them less accessibleor attractive targets, or because the toppriority of the forces of repression is to intimidatenewcomers out of long-term commitment to thestruggle—or perhaps our enemies believe that theybenefit from the escalation of confrontation, and seemilitants as helping push things in this direction. Ifthe last of these possibilities is the case, so muchthe better—we also desire for everything to cometo a head; but we had better be more prepared forit than they are, and that is a tall, tall order.

policies that tend to get their supportersshot down, blown up, and kidnapped, becausethese unfortunate e¤ects drive moresupporters into their arms.Mere world domination is no use to arepressive regime. As soon as there areno barbarians at the gates to point to asthe greater of two evils, the subjects startgetting restless—witness the decade followingthe fall of the Berlin Wall, wheninternal resistance grew and grew in thevacuum left by the Communist menace.War-without-end may make people restless,too, but it also keeps them busyreacting to it, if not dying in it, instead ofcutting to the root of the matter.Years of perpetuating the Israeli-Palestinianconflict are paying o¤: militant Islam,once a backyard startup company, is finally aglobal threat, poised to replace the CommunistBloc 12 . Western-style capitalism has extendedits influence and control so far thatexternal opposition must now come frompreviously peripheral corners of the world,such as Afghanistan; a few fanatics fromthat periphery were enough to inauguratethe new era of Terror-vs.-Democracy backin 2001, but it will take a lot more fanaticsto maintain, and the current US foreignpolicy will produce them. The RepublicanParty may lose the next election as theresult of public dismay over the untidinessof the Iraq occupation, but so long as theysucceed in setting a long-term worldwideconflict in motion first, they can count onreturning to power soon enough.If all this speculation is correct, wheredoes that leave us anarchists, who alsostruggle against global capitalism? First, weshould be extremely hesitant to cheerleadmilitant Islamic resistance, except whenwe have reason to believe it will produceanti-authoritarian results. Solidarity with all21It’s interesting to note that one of the factorsthat helped bring about the end of the SovietUnion was a protracted war with Muslim radicalsin Afghanistan, which the latter won in 1989—theyear the Berlin Wall came down. In that regard,militant Islam literally replaced communism asthe supposed antithesis to Western capitalism. Ayear later, in a surprise decision to oust former allySaddam Hussein from Kuwait, the US moved forcesinto the Middle East; predictably, this outraged AlQaeda—which had formed in Afghanistan duringthe war with the Soviets—and the rest is history. It’salmost too convenient for the purposes of this analysisthat the CIA spent the ’80s funding and trainingthe same Muslim fundamentalists that immediatelywent on to top their most-wanted lists.who oppose oppression is critical forthe anarchist project, but the enemyof our enemy is not always our friend:as things stand right now, Osama binLaden and George Bush stand to gaina lot more from this conflict than therest of us folks do. The specter of USimperialism will no doubt enablehierarchical powers in Muslim communitiesto strengthen their hold overothers, just as terrorism has enabledBush to consolidate his power here.We need to figure out who our alliesare overseas—who fights for liberty,self-determination, and mutual aidthere as we do here—and do all wecan to support them.To make it easier for people elsewhereto feel that there is hope forsuch a struggle, so they don’t settlefor joining up with the lesser of twoevils themselves, we need to fight hardhere at home. This is the anarchistsolution to the problem of foreignterrorism and totalitarianism: if wecan suªciently cripple our own rulers,foreign powers won’t be able to justifytheir terror and tyranny by pointing tothe threat our tyrants pose.Above all, we must seize fromBush and bin Laden the initiativeto define the contests of our day. Aslong as the principal global conflict isconceptualized as Democracy versusTerrorism or the West versus Islam, itwill be increasingly diªcult to mobilizestruggles on other grounds forother objectives. If we hope to joingreat numbers of people in the US andabroad in a war against hierarchy ratherthan each other, we will have to frame andpopularize new dichotomies.In this sense, it is significant that theUS government is taking advantage of thecurrent climate to portray activists whohave nothing to do with militant Islam asterrorists. Once enough US citizens whohave nothing to do with Al Qaeda arebranded with that epithet, the fault linesof conflict will be drawn within this society,rather than between it and another, andit’ll be a whole new ball game. Should theoverzealous FBI carelessly push thingspast this threshold, their repression mightactually help make it clear to everyonethat the most important battles transcendnationality and religion; but for that to beFor further perspective on the wayadversaries help to prop up authoritarianregimes, we can consult Orwell’s1984, in which a totalitarian governmentrelies on a state of perpetualwar to maintain its control. The idealenemy is unable to win, but alwaysable to threaten, so subjects neitherfeel too safe nor too fearful. The idealenemy is a mirror image of the government,so subjects who might find faultwith their rulers are more outragedby their enemies: if the governmentis willing to sacrifice innocent life, theenemy must be even more callous indoing so; if the government promotesa superstitious, repressive creed, theenemy must fight in the name of anequally superstitious and repressivebelief system. The ideal enemy mustprovide excuses to justify the repressionof internal foes, but must bedi¤erent enough from those foes thatthere is no need to fear the two findingcommon cause.For the empire of global capitalism,ethnic/religious terrorism is theperfect foil. A rival empire would posean obstacle to global domination, butterrorists can threaten everywherewithout ruling anywhere. Only coldbloodedterrorism can make the humiliationsof capitalist exploitation pale incomparison; only terrorist aspirationsto power can make the rule of plutocraticdemagogues seem preferable.possible, we’ll have to be tireless in supportingour targeted comrades and fearlessin openly proclaiming our opposition tothe system. This is another function ofmilitant anarchist struggle in the US: tobring the war home to such an extentthat it can no longer be framed as an usversus-themconflict with foreigners, butbecomes instead a confrontation betweenclasses within this country.To prepare for the years ahead, weshould study the past decades of the Israeli-Palestinianconflict, as it forms theblueprint for the new world order. The factthat it has proved irresolvable thus farmakes it a promising model for protractedglobal war… but should anyone hit upon away of undermining that impasse, howeverso slightly, it might be a starting point foran escape route out of this whole mess.The ÉmigrésStrike BackMaking Mayday a Threat AgainThe Uprising BeginsThe other day I was riding my bike through downtownTucson, on my way to write a story about recent indigenousuprisings on a faraway island in Indonesia. My mind wasoccupied by mundane worries: low air pressure on therear tire, cars driving too close to me, wondering if I wasgetting skin cancer from so much sun.I had nearly completed my daily pilgrimage to theo∞ce when my trivial thoughts were interrupted by a seaof people moving steadily in my direction from severalblocks away. There was joyful shouting, people carryingindistinguishable flags and banners. “Wasn’t Saint Patrick’sday last week?” I thought to myself. As I neared the energetic crowd,I soon realized this was no state-sanctioned holiday, and it sure as hellhad nothing to do with the Irish.Instead, I saw two or three hundred mostly Latino youth marchingdefiantly down the street. Recalling the numerous record-breakingprotests against racist anti-immigrant laws of the past week, I realizedI had run into a student walkout.As I neared the next block, I was amazed to find a group of three hundredstudents already rallying in front of the federal building. In the nexthalf hour, the crowd swelled to over a thousand as more and more fugitivestudents arrived in groups of ten, fifty, and a hundred. The energy and excitementof these youthful rebels nearly overwhelmed me as their chants of“Si se puede!” (Yes it can be done) rang through the air, at times drownedout by the constant honking of supportive passersby. Others chanted “Wedidn’t cross the border, the border crossed us!” in reference to the UnitedStates’ arbitrary heist of the northern portion of Mexico over a centuryago. Still more carried signs reading “No human is illegal.”The following day I was again riding my bike through downtown,somewhat more prepared than before to run into a protest because Ihad heard that students were planning another walkout. I was disappointedwhen I encountered a small crowd of fifty kids walking on thesidewalk. “I guess they let their steam out yesterday,” I thought pessimisticallyto myself. As I rounded the corner onto Congress Ave, I wasforced to eat my words. This crowd was nearly double the size of theprevious day’s, overflowing the small plaza in front of the federalbuilding into the streets. The initial fifty were just stragglers. Soonthe massive crowd surged towards the federal courthouse, wherethousands of immigrants are deported every year, and proceededto block the entrance to this institute of oppression for half anhour. Meanwhile, hundreds of other students cruised the streetsPage 8 : Commentary : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Brand News : Page 9

of downtown in perilously overloaded vehicles, blasting themusic of their home countries, waving Mexican flags, andcarrying posters of Cesar Chavez. Whether or not it wasintentional, these cruisers, in conjunction with the sea ofprotestors swarming downtown from all directions, broughtTucson’s business district to a standstill.The energy, defiance, and sheer power of these demonstrationsstands in stark contrast to the dreary, wellbehaved,state-approved parades put on by our country’snumerous leftist organizations. “These are no mereprotests,” I thought to myself, “this is an uprising.” Thisinitial speculation was confirmed when I got back homeand looked at the news reports. Even the mainstream pressacknowledged that well over a thousand Tucson middle andhigh school students had dropped their pens and paper andtaken to the streets to protest the government’s attemptedcrackdown on immigration. At one school, someone pulleda fire alarm after the principle attempted to direct studentsinto the gymnasium, ensuring their escape to the streets. Atanother school, several dozen students scaled a barbed wirefence after administrators locked the only exit shut. 1 Otherstudents took their anger out on the Border Patrol, notoriousfor its rampant racism and sadistic abuse of detainees, 2by throwing rocks at its Tucson headquarters.Tucson was no isolated incident. In Los Angeles, thirtysix-thousandstudents walked out three days in a row, shutdown four freeways, and several times found themselvesclashing with the LAPD when the latter attempted to breakup this spontaneous outbreak of rebellion. In Fort Worth, TX,not exactly a hotbed of radicalism, several hundred studentswalked out and proceeded to take over their city hall. The policeresponded by injuring several students, one of whom requiredhospitalization, to “restore order.” There’s nothing likea group of grown, armed men beating the shit out of schoolchildren! In Pasadena, CA police opened up on a crowd ofone-hundred-fifty students with pepper balls in an attemptto disperse them. The students responded to this unprovokedattack by throwing rocks and bottles at the police.In San Diego, six thousand students took to the streets infive days of class disruptions. On the final day they attemptedto take over the Coronado bridge which spans San Diego Bay,but were stopped by a wall of California Highway Patrolmen.In Santa Ana several government o∞ces, including the taxcollector’s o∞ce, were shut down by student occupations.I’ve Always Wanted to be anUrban GuerrillaThis massive wave of civil disobedience on the heels ofthe previous week’s pro-immigrant demonstrations thatbrought millions into the streets is no doubt a sign of ahealthy and rapidly growing national rebellion. Where dothe predominately white anti-authoritarian and anti-imperialistmovements of this country fit into the picture?1 Talk about dramatic symbolism.2 Sound familiar?First o≠, gringos need to understand that immigrants tothe US are for the most part fleeing the poverty, hunger, andviolent repression manufactured abroad by the governmentof our country in order to ensure the relative comfort of ourlives here at home. It is no coincidence that the “flood” ofillegal immigrants from Mexico skyrocketed after the implementationof NAFTA. The human beings who are riskingtheir lives (several hundred die every year) traversing thearid borderlands are not doing so to steal people’s jobs. Theyare trying to ensure the survival of their families by earningslightly more than the starvation wages they find, if they arelucky, south of the border 3 .Radicals in the US should extend solidarity to the immigrantrights movement in every way possible. This is notthe time for professional activists to step up and “show themasses the way.” The folks fueling the fire of this uprisingseem to have a pretty clear analysis of the situation and anequally clear vision of how to win. The last thing they needis some know-it-all honkies to come in and tell them whatto do. If you need further convincing of this fact, considerthat the immigrant rights movement has managed in a matterof weeks to mobilize an enormous and militant movementthat is already beginning to surpass what the anti-warmovement, with the “help” of all those well-paid professionalactivists, has accomplished in the past three years.Sympathetic gringos can o≠er direct assistance by cookingfood for demonstrators, hanging posters, organizingsolidarity actions, o≠ering rides to demonstrations andmeetings, acting as legal observers, raising funds for legal expenses(hundreds have already been arrested for acts of civildisobedience), and of course showing up to demonstrations.One role I believe we have a particular responsibility toplay is confronting racist boneheads such as the Minutemenwho have spearheaded the massive anti-immigrantbacklash. The shear idiocy of anyone of European descentin North America complaining about illegal immigrants ismaddening enough—but when these bigots start walkingaround with guns to protect, not so much the borders of theUS, but their racist ideals, and in return receive significantbacking from prominent Republicans and the media, wehave a duty to stop them. 4 Wherever these racist thugs holda rally, we should organize a larger counter-rally. Wheneverthey organize a meeting, we should be there to disrupt it.Those of us who live near the border can interfere withtheir “civilian border patrols” by warning would-be crossersof their presence. (A megaphone and a spotlight will help.)We can show our solidarity by continuing to fight the imperialistpolicies that have impoverished other countries andcreated this whole immigration “problem” in the first place.Shutting down the WTO in Seattle was a good start, but wetotally dropped the ball on NAFTA and CAFTA. However, it3 Even if they were just job-stealing, baby-making welfare leeches here fora free ride, as the right wing asserts, I’d say good for them. After all we’vestolen from them and their countries, it’s merely a matter of them comingand getting a little piece of the pie back—in other words, reparations.4 Do you think if we show up to the next protest with assault rifles we’llget the media drooling all over us too?is not too late to defeat the Free Trade Area of the Americas,and resistance to it throughout the rest of the continent isstill fierce. I reckon it’s never too late to get the other tworepealed either. While welcoming economic and politicalrefugees into our country is a good start, if we want to createa truly just world for everyone, we must destroy the policiesthat force people to make the trek in the first place.Radicals must address the anti-immigrant sentiment thatsometimes boils up within our own ranks—for example,in certain sectors of the environmental movement. Groupssuch as the Sierra Club have flirted for years with theasinine notion that poor immigrants are somehow a majorsource of ecological destruction in the US. The line of logicproceeds thus: the increase in population is causing majorsprawl, and by moving to the US—hold your breath for thisone—immigrants start to consume at the rate that US citizensdo. If I understand this right, it’s OK for us to continueconsuming the world’s resources at a suicidal rate, but notfor anyone else to? Talk about blaming the victim! Insteadof scapegoating immigrants, we should be working first andforemost to reduce our own consumption of resources.Immigrants causing sprawl is an equally ridiculousassertion. They are not the ones building the second andthird trophy homes that are eating up wilderness across thecountry. On second thought, they often are the ones buildingthese homes—not for themselves, but for the exorbitantlifestyles of middle and upper class US citizens. Don’t evenget me started on the devastation that a massive borderwall, as some are calling for, would have on the ecologicalintegrity of the Sonoran desert ecosystem.Radical immigrant groups that are fighting for betterwages and work conditions in the US also deserve support.Groups such as the Farm Labor Organizing Committee(FLOC) and the Coalition of Immokalee Workers (CIW)have both launched numerous protests, boycotts, andspeaking tours to achieve better pay in the fields. DuringFLOC’s boycott of Mt. Olive pickles, anarchists in NorthCarolina helped by protesting at grocery stores (includingtrashing Mt. Olive products in the store), painting banners,and o≠ering rides to FLOC organizers who did not havedocumentation or driver’s licenses. The CIW recently wonin a boycott against Taco Bell to pay tomato pickers moreper pound, and have just launched a fresh boycott againstMcDonalds hoping to achieve the same goal. I’m sure youcan think of a number of ways to help compel McD’s tomeet their demands.Comida no Migra—“food, not border patrol”—is a newtake on the Food Not Bombs model that is catching on inmany communities across the US. Instead of serving lunchor dinner in the park, participants get up early in the morningto bring food to immigrant day laborers at the placeswhere they wait for work. Not only does this provide folkswith a little sustenance and good cheer, it also puts observerson site to make sure no one fucks with them. The Minutemen,not knowing what else to do with their pathetic lives,have started protesting at day labor sites to intimidate immigrants.Similarly, it’s not unheard-of for immigrants to getpicked up by some asshole, work all day, and then not getpaid; even worse, there have been incidents in which racistshave picked up day laborers and beaten or killed them.There is a lot of work to be done in the fight for immigrantrights. Whether that means o≠ering childcareto families so that they can attend meetings, translatinginformation on workers’ rights into Spanish, or blockadingPage 10 : Brand News : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Brand News : Page 11

immigration detention centers, there are many fronts inthis battle and all of them are important. It would behooveradicals in the US to study the solidarity work people inEurope 5 and Australia have done around immigration andasylum seeking. In Australia, activists have repeatedly brokenpolitical asylum-seekers out of detention centers andprovided them refuge. In Italy several years ago, a group ofactivists actually dismantled an immigrant detention facilitywhile police looked on helplessly!There is much we can o≠er. The fight for immigrantrights is not about us and how radical our politics are. It isabout lending our solidarity to people in struggle.Postscript: May 1, 2006I woke up this Mayday morning more excited then usual.The air was clear and crisp but still warm enough to sportonly a t-shirt. It wasn’t the weather I was excited about,though—I was anticipating this country’s first nationwidegeneral strike in several decades. The immigrant rightsmovement had declared this fine spring day “A Day withoutImmigrants.” They took the right wing rhetoric to the e≠ectthat “we don’t need immigrants” and replied “Ok gringo, ifyou don’t need us, we’re not going to go to work or school,nor buy or sell anything on this day. Let’s see how well thiscountry runs.” Despite a number of spineless Latino “leaders”condemning the strike, saying that it would create abacklash 6 and send the wrong message, the strike was byand large a stunning success.Across the country immigrants and their allies walkedo≠ the job, skipped school, shuttered the windows oftheir shops, and refused to spend any money. In Phoenix,thousands of workers took the day o≠ and blockaded the entrancesto various Wal-mart and Home Depot stores. Nearlyall the chain restaurants in the city had to close or slashtheir hours due to the strike. Dozens of meatpacking plants,employing thousands of workers, were closed down nationwidedue to that industry’s reliance on immigrant labor.Los Angeles was possibly hardest hit, with a good portionof the city completely shut down. The port of LA, one ofthe country’s largest, was ninety percent inactive thanksto the overwhelming majority of truckers refusing to haulgoods that day. A small but rowdy portion of the more thanone million people who marched for immigrant rights inLA chose to round o≠ the day in running battles with thepolice, throwing rocks and bottles, dragging debris into thestreets, and vandalizing outdoor advertisements. California’sstate legislature was forced to close when janitors, cafeteriaworkers, and maintenance people did not show up to workat the capitol building. Meanwhile, across the country, theNew York state legislature shut down mid-session whenBlack and Latino legislators walked out in solidarity withthe protest. Back in California, the agricultural counties5 Check out the No Border network—a massive European immigrants’rights coalition—at www.noborder.org.6 As if the bill then in Congress that would deport twelve million peopleand militarize the US-Mexico border wasn’t a backlash!were hit particularly hard, with major corporate farms suchas Gallo Wines being forced to halt production for the day.A riot broke out in Santa Ana, CA when police tried todisperse a crowd of fifteen-hundred that had taken over amajor boulevard. The crowd responded by raining bottlesand rocks on the cops, who were forced to retreat until ariot squad was brought in to quell the revolt. In New YorkCity, scu±es broke out with police when a crowd thousandsstrong attempted to take the Brooklyn Bridge.Nearly half a million people marched through the streetsof Chicago, and another one-hundred-thousand marchedin Denver, where it was reported that scu±es broke outbetween protestors and Minutemen counter-protestors.Several hundred cities and small towns across the countryexperienced demonstrations, many of them the largestthose cities had ever seen.In a sign that the immigrant rights movement may bediversifying, a Department of Homeland Security o∞cein Santa Cruz responsible for deporting immigrants hadits windows shattered overnight. According to a messageposted on the internet, dozens of banks and “financial institutions”had their locks glued and ATM machines sabotagedin western North Carolina in an apparent move to supportthe general strike.South of the border throughout Mexico, hundreds ofthousands of people observed a sister day of protest labeled“A Day without a Gringo,” in which Mexicans boycotted allUS business interests. Mexico City saw a crowd of severalthousand gather to listen to Zapatista leader Marcos speakand to show their solidarity with their brothers and sistersstruggling north of the border. Afterwards, several hundreddemonstrators took a tour of the business district smashingthe windows of US-owned banks and restaurants. InMonterey, a group of women gave out free tacos in front ofa McDonald’s in an e≠ort to support the boycott. Meanwhile,every major border crossing from El Paso to San Diegowas shut down by groups of angry Mexican citizens ontheir side of the border, preventing hundreds of thousandsif not millions of dollars worth of goods from crossing theborder that day.All in all, this Mayday was no doubt one of the largest, ifnot the largest, days of protest this country has ever seen.Counting LA, Chicago, Denver, and DC alone, there werenearly two million people in the streets, with an equal orgreater number joining in smaller demonstrations acrossthe US. It was a day of protest based on the principles ofdirect action, the centerpiece of which was a general strike.In many places demonstrators went further, blockadingbusinesses that exploit immigrants and engaging the policein battles when push came to shove.It is quite fitting that it is immigrants who have broughtMayday back to its former splendor in this country. It washere, in Chicago, that this international day of workers’solidarity was born in the struggle for the eight-hour day.And it was largely radical immigrant workers, many of themanarchists, who gave their tears, sweat, and blood over acentury ago fighting for a better way of life.“The majority sit quietly and dare to hope.Since you aren’t guilty, how can they arrestyou? It’s a mistake! They are alreadydragging you along by the collar, and youstill keep exclaiming to yourself: “It’s amistake! They’ll set things straight and let meout!” Others are being arrested en masse,and that’s a bothersome fact, but in thoseother cases there is always some dark area:“Maybe he was guilty…?” But as for you,you are obviously innocent! You still believethat the police and the judicial system arehumanly logical institutions: they will setthings straight and let you out.Why, then, should you run away? Andhow can you resist right then? After all,you’ll only make your situation worse; you’llmake it more di∞cult for them to sort outthe mistake. And it isn’t just that you don’tput up any resistance; you even walk downthe stairs on tiptoe, as you are ordered todo, so your neighbors won’t hear.And how we burned in the camps later,thinking: What would things have beenlike if every security operative, when hewent out at night to make an arrest, hadbeen uncertain whether he would returnalive, and had to say goodbye to his family?TheIrrepressibleAnarchistsFederal Infiltration andRepression—What It Means,What to Do, What Not to FearOr if, during periods of mass arrests, as forexample in Leningrad, when they arresteda quarter of the entire city, people had notsimply sat there in their lairs, paling withterror at every bang of the downstairs doorand at every step on the staircase, but hadunderstood that they had nothing left tolose and had boldly set up in the downstairshall an ambush of half a dozen people withaxes, hammers, pokers, or whatever elsewas at hand? After all, you knew ahead oftime that those bastards were out at nightfor no good purpose. And you could be sureahead of time that you’d be cracking theskull of a cutthroat. Or what about the BlackMaria sitting out there on the street withone lonely chau≠eur—what if it had beendriven o≠ or its tires spiked? The Bureauwould very quickly have su≠ered a shortageof o∞cers and transport and, notwithstandingall of Stalin’s thirst, the cursed machinewould have ground to a halt!If . . . If . . . We didn’t love freedomenough. We purely and simply deservedeverything that happened afterward.”-Aleksandr I. Solzhenitsyn,The Gulag ArchipelagoThe beast has been awakened—snarling—andwants to bite someone soon. Wefear, not without reason, that it may be us.At this moment the Underground Armies ofBarbarian Anarchists are getting scant attention.Still, we are on a very short list. We haverecently been considered a genuine threat tonational security. We have yet to be linked inany manner to the hijackers and their supporters,despite the obvious advantages thatthe reactionaries stand to gain by doing so.This will not last forever. We are being givena grace period, to rally around the flag andreturn to the fold, or else. They will connectthe dots or create the dots to connect, andjust because many of us are Americans doesnot mean we are safe.Thus speculated the CrimethInc. Warbringercell in After the Fall, an analysispublished in the wake of the attacks of September11, 2001. Granted, the FBI has notseriously attempted to link the domesticanarchist movement to actual Islamic terrororganizations—that would be too muchof a stretch, even for the geniuses whotestified at Daniel McGowan’s detentionPage 12 : Brand News : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Brand News : Page 13

make it so. The same goes for the strugglein prison, for those serving sentences: acommunity cannot foster long-term commitmentto militant struggle unless itsupports its prisoners of war; conversely,those prisoners have power to the extentto which their comrades outside maintainenough momentum to exert social andpolitical leverage.While we’re at it, let’s postulate a fewother lessons from the initial phase of thiswave of repression. First, every activistgroup should be prepared to be targeted,with resources (a lawyer, money, a networkof potential supporters) and a gameplan ready. Second, in times of increasedsurveillance and repression, we must becautious without letting fear immobilizeus. We’re powerful because we act, andbecause we’re connected to others; beingfrightened into passivity and isolation canonly weaken and endanger us. Third, nowmore than ever solidarity means constructivecriticism, not speculations (“Thatarson? I bet that was Alphonse—he’s intomacho tactics”) or accusations (“She neverdoes anything—she’s just a lot of talk”).You never know what situation a personis in: she might be a wanted fugitive whocan’t respond to your thoughtless wordswithout endangering herself. Likewise, “innocent”activists may be accused of others’actions, and even go to prison for them;but this is the fault of the government, noton the ones who act, so long as they don’tstupidly put others at risk. Finally, muchof the evidence in recent cases is basedon informants wearing microphones intoconversations. Activists should considerthe possibility that even trusted companionscould be wired; don’t ever reminisceneedlessly over past illegal actions, don’tassume old cases are closed even after adecade of silence, don’t work with peopleyou’re not sure you’ll trust ten years fromnow. Meet a person’s family and friendsbefore joining in illegal activity.And above all, DON’T TALK TO POLICEOR THE FBI. No matter what, it can neverhelp you. They wouldn’t ask you in thefirst place if they didn’t need your helpto ruin your life. Remember: “I am goingto remain silent. I would like to speak withan attorney.”“They can’t get inside you,” shehad said. But they could get inside you.There were things, your own acts, fromwhich you could not recover. Somethingwas killed in your breast; burnt out, cauterizedout . . .“Sometimes,” she said, “they threatenyou with something—something you can’tstand up to, can’t even think about. Andthen you say, ‘Don’t do it to me, do it tosomebody else, do it to so-and-so.’ Andperhaps you might pretend, afterwards, thatit was only a trick and that you just said itto make them stop and didn’t really meanit. But that isn’t true. At the time when ithappens you do mean it. You think there’sno other way of saving yourself and you’requite ready to save yourself that way. Youwant it to happen to the other person. Youdon’t give a damn what they su≠er. All youcare about is yourself.”“All you care about is yourself,” heechoed.He was not running or cheering anylonger. He was back in the Ministry of Love,with everything forgiven, his soul white assnow. He was in the public dock, confessingeverything, implicating everybody. He waswalking down the white-tiled corridor, withthe feeling of walking in the sunlight, and anarmed guard at his back. The long-hoped-forbullet was entering his brain.But it was all right, everything was allright, the struggle was finished. He hadwon the victory over himself. He lovedBig Brother.–George Orwell at the bitter end of 1984Brutal assaults from the state shouldcome as no surprise. The most troublingaspect of this story is that some of thosearrested—and even some who were notarrested, who are not even facing the threatof life in prison—have agreed to speak tothe authorities, putting others at grievousrisk.Imagine the situation of an activist whohas agreed to testify against her formercomrades. All the experiences that madeher an anarchist, from childhood on, comeback to haunt her as she betrays her ownvalues and commitments, siding with thebullies, the rapists, the snide executivesand sadistic police. Whatever tremendousfeats she has accomplished, whateverpersonal qualities she took pride in, nowshe will be remembered as a informantand must live with the knowledge thatshe is one.In return for the potential of one dayrejoining the defeated herd she foughtso hard to escape, she must tell herselfthe same lies that once outraged her:that people are essentially selfish and untrustworthy,that complicity in injustice isinevitable and acceptable, that one cansimply look out for number one in a disastrouslyunsustainable world. She doesnot even know how much leniency shecan expect; the government can hardlylet her o¤ the hook when they’ve workedso hard to find her. On the other hand, asa snitch, she can be sure that if she goesto prison her fellow inmates will terrorizeher. This gives the state even more powerover her. Perhaps she considers breakingo¤ collaboration, but to do so would onlyleave her isolated from all directions; thedie is already cast. One can hardly imaginea worse position to be in.Let us phase out the masked figurelobbing a molotov cocktail as the idealizedimage of revolt; there is a time for that, andthe sooner it comes back around the better,but it is not the ultimate stage of struggle.Henceforth, when we think of resistanceat its most courageous and romantic, letus picture someone like ourselves in aninterrogation chamber, not masked buthandcu¤ed, being threatened with lifeand death in captivity and still refusingto render herself and her fellows into herenemies’ hands.Facing the threat of incarceration, wemust redefine freedom and safety as factorsunder our control, not external circumstances.Freedom is not a matter ofhow many fences happen to be aroundyou, but of following the dictates of yourconscience no matter what. Safety is notthe condition of being temporarily outsidethe grasp of your enemies, but of trustingyourself enough to know that your friendswill never come to harm because of youand you will never become somethingyou despise.We Can Win:Success Storiesfrom the Struggleagainst RepressionNot only is it critical to fight in thecourtrooms as well as the streets—it’s alsopossible to win those fights. A brief lookat our own recent history shows countlesscases in which activists have beatencharges and even come out ahead in counter-suits.Such victories not only discourageour enemies from taking us to court,they can also provide needed resourcesfor further organizing. Throwing up one’shands in panic as soon as someone getsarrested is not only counterproductive,it’s also needlessly pessimistic. To o¤setthe doomsaying of the inexperienced andeasily demoralized, let’s reflect on a couplerecent victories won by activists forced tofight within the legal system.At the Republican National Conventionin Philadelphia summer of 2000, CamiloViveiros and two others were beaten andarrested by a group of police that includedJohn Timoney, then Police Commissionerof Philadelphia. Charged with numerousfelonies (as a rule, you always get chargedby the police for whatever they do to you)and demonized as violent extremists, theactivists came to be known as the TimoneyThree; Camilo himself faced more thanthirty-seven years in prison and $55,000in fines. They awaited trial for four years,while Timoney jet-setted around the worldgiving presentations on how to repressprotesters and serving as Chief of Police inMiami during the FTAA ministerial in 2003.It seemed certain that anyone charged withassaulting someone in such a position ofpower was doomed to go to prison. Yetwhen the trial finally came, Timoney andthe other oªcers made fools of themselves,o¤ering wildly conflicting testimonies; afterthe defense presented a videotape thatrevealed the testimony of the police to bemere fabrication, the three were declaredinnocent of all charges. In an excellentarticle in the March-April 2006 issue ofthe Earth First! journal, Camilo outlinedthe lessons of that trial for those currentlyfacing government repression.One of the most important trials of thepreceding generation of environmentalactivism ended in an unconditional victoryover the mendacious, murderous authorities.In 1990, Judi Bari and Darryl Cherneywere nearly killed by a car bomb while ona speaking tour to promote resistance tocorporate logging. Rather than investigatingthe bombing, the FBI charged the twowith making and transporting bombs. Theyalso took advantage of the opportunity tocarry out a nationwide smear campaignagainst Earth First!, and sent agents tocreate dossiers on over five hundred activistsassociated with the organization.To this day, it remains unclear whetherthe bombing was the work of freelancevigilantes or of the FBI themselves—inthe weeks before it, FBI agents instructedthe local police on how to make bombsexactly like the one that nearly killed Judiand Darryl. The charges failed to hold upin court, and the two initiated a countersuitagainst the FBI and Oakland PoliceDepartment. Although the FBI managedto delay the trial for almost eleven years,during which Judi, who was crippled bythe bombing, died of cancer, Darryl andothers continued pressing the suit. Finally,in 2002, a jury found the FBI and OaklandPolice guilty and ordered them to pay $4.4million in damages.When the struggle in the courtroomfails, there are always other means ofresistance. On November 2, 1979, aftergiving birth in prison only to have herdaughter taken away in less than a week,Black freedom fighter Assata Shakur managedone of the most impressive jailbreaksof the era. After almost a year in a WestVirginia federal prison for women, surroundedby white supremacists from theAryan Sisterhood prison gang, Shakurwas transferred to the maximum securitywing of the Clinton Correctional Centerin New Jersey. There she was one of onlyeight maximum security prisoners heldin a small, well-fenced cellblock of theirown. The rest of Clinton, including itsvisiting area, was medium security andnot fenced in.According to news reports, Shakur’sescape proceeded as follows: Threemen—two black, one white—using bogusdriver’s licenses and Social Securitycards requested visits with Assata fourweeks in advance, as was prison policy.Apparently, prison oªcials never did therequisite background checks. On the dayof the escape, the three met in the waitingroom at the prison entrance, where theywere processed through registration andshuttled in a van to the visiting room inSouth Hall. One member of the team wentahead of the others. Although there wasa sign stating that all visitors would besearched with a hand-held metal detector,he made it through registration withouteven a pat-down. Meanwhile, the othertwo men were processed without a search.As these two were being let through thechain-link fences and locked metal doorsat the visiting center one of them drew agun and took the guard hostage. Simultaneously,the man visiting Shakur rushedthe control booth, put two pistols to theglass wall, and ordered the oªcer to openthe room’s metal door. She obliged.From there, Shakur and her companionstook a third guard hostage and madePage 16 : Brand News : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Brand News : Page 17

it to the parked van. Because only themaximum security section of the prisonwas fully fenced in, the escape team wasable to speed across a grassy meadow tothe parking lot of the Hunterdon StateSchool, where they meet two more femaleaccomplices, and split up into a “two-toneblue sedan” and a Ford Maverick. All theguards were released unharmed and theFBI immediately launched a massive hunt.But Shakur disappeared without a trace.For the next five years authorities huntedin vain. Shakur had vanished. Numerousother alleged BLA cadre were busted duringthose years, including Tupac’s step-father,Mutula Shakur.In 1984, word came from ninety miles o¤the coast of Florida: the FBI’s most wantedfemale fugitive was living in Cuba, workingon a masters degree in political science,writing her autobiography, and raising herdaughter. She still lives there today.Our Strategyfrom HereThis is a somewhat quiet phase ofresistance in this country, as everyonewaits out the end of the Bush presidency;we can a¤ord to focus a lot of energy onbenefit events, prisoner support groups,and public outreach. When things heat upagain, we’ll benefit from having done thiswork, and in the meantime it o¤ers us arallying point.In addition to supporting our targetedcomrades, we have to protect the infrastructureof our community. In Italy, wherethe brutal state repression of the past decadehas succeeded in paralyzing many ofthose who bottomlined anarchist projects,police and fascists have been able to shutdown some of the social centers, publications,and protest campaigns that formedthe lifeblood of a vibrant anarchist movement.We must not allow that to happenhere. The government will target those whoare most active and visible; when one ofus is immobilized by legal problems, it’sup to the rest of us to take up the slack.Our infrastructure is not just made up offormally organized groups; it also consistsof and depends on our social networksand culture of resistance. If people ceaseto come together at politicized entertainmentevents and community potlucks, orcease to work through conflicts and shareemotional support, that will be just asdevastating as the loss of an infoshop orFood Not Bombs.As for our proactive tactics, howshould we adjust them in the light of thiso¤ensive? It’s worth pointing out that, withthe exception of Rob Thaxton 5 , no anarchistin recent memory has served more thana couple years in prison for participationin mass actions—this is impressive, giventhe high level of confrontation these havesometimes reached. It seems to be harderto make charges stick in mass action scenarios,perhaps because they involve somany suspects and so much chaos, andalso because investigating them at greatlength would overextend the resourcesof the state. The police are forced to grabwhomever they can—usually not peoplewho had any major role in the actions—andcharge them with crimes for which thereis little evidence.Ironically, in the wake of September11 th , anarchists backed o¤ militant massactions in fear that they would meet sti¤errepression. Consequently, we have lessleverage and morale—and we are still beingtargeted as domestic enemy numberone! The FBI and the whole apparatus ofrepression are after us whether or not weskulk around in the shadows, so we mayas well organize openly. If we’re all headedfor court anyway, we have little to lose, andwe stand to gain much-needed visibilityand momentum. If enough of us stick ournecks out, they can’t target us all, and themore people of all walks of life are familiarwith our struggle the more allies we canhope to find. Now is the time to formaccessible anarchist structures, to speakpublicly about our opposition to capitalismand domination, to organize large-scaleanarchist actions. Far from endangeringus, this may actually make us safer.As for those who prefer more coverttactics such as arson and sabotage, theclearest lesson of the current phase ofrepression is that the government is in-5 Rob just finished serving a seven year sentence forthrowing a rock at a police oªcer during a Reclaimthe Streets in Eugene, Oregon, June 18 th , 1999.terested above all in mapping networksof resistance 6 . If you are not connected tothe current pool of suspects, doing as yourconscience dictates is no more dangerousnow than it was a decade ago, providedyou practice flawless security culture andpick prudent comrades who will neverbuckle under pressure. Indeed, as thetrials of the current defendants play outover the coming months, we will be givenvaluable insight into how the FBI investigatescrimes of this nature. This should,if anything, make it easier for activists toengage safely in militant direct action.Our enemies are wrong to hypothesizethat we can be frightened into passivity.If the prospect of living in a world ofdomination and despair was bad enoughto catalyze us into action, think how muchless appealing it is to be silent knowingour comrades can be taken from us at anytime. As they escalate this conflict, we canonly respond in kind.6 In January 2006, a fifty-year-old man was arrestedon suspicion of damaging over a dozen cars and twobuildings at an automobile dealership in Newport,Oregon. The buildings were spray painted withthe letters “ELF,” and two local news stations hadreceived calls claiming the action in the name ofthe ELF. However, as reported by the Newport NewsTimes, “Police could not establish any connectionbetween MacMurdo and the ELF organization. Itis believed his actions were retaliatory in natureand not any kind of political statement.” He wascharged with criminal mischief and his bail wasset at $32,500, a miniscule amount by eco-terrorstandards. What does a guy have to do these daysto get charged as an eco-terrorist? Obviously, hehas to have the right friends.“Hey you! Stop!”Those words marked the beginning of a year and twomonth journey that will end in three days when I report tothe Fort Dix Federal Prison. In the dark, early hours of January31 st , 2005, I found momentum pushing me to go aheadwith an action that I had very poorly prepared for. I hadcome to the Bronx that night after having scouted out anArmy recruiting station next to Westchester Square in theeastern part of the borough. With a few lighter-fluid-soakedrags, I hoped to put some small dent in the huge militarymachine. I failed pretty miserably.I arrived that night with no lookout and a poorly thoughtout escape plan. The feelings in my stomach, which I shouldhave seen as a warning to turn back, I interpreted as generalnervousness. I would just go ahead with the action and anykinks would work themselves out. After hammering out asection of the glass door of the building, I took out one ofthe rags, lit it, and tossed it inside on the carpet. I like tothink it was the adrenaline that made me think that lightingthe carpet on fire would burn the place down. No matterthe reason, I was very, very wrong.Quickly, but without running, I made my way across thestreet and was walking down my escape route when I heardthose three aforementioned words. I turned, saw two copscoming down the block towards me, and ran. I could hearthem running behind me and after half a block I lookedover my shoulder and saw both of their guns pointed at me.In retrospect, I should have just taken o≠ because they probablywouldn’t have shot me, but at the time it seemed likeI was in imminent danger. This seems like a problem moremental preparation could have solved.I’m cu≠ed and led back to the building. The fire departmentgets called. Detectives get called. One cop, seeing mytattoos, suggests the gang detectives get called (the othersignore him). All the while, pigs were asking me “Why didyou do it?” or other questions that implied my guilt. I steadfastlysaid nothing and just glared at them. At this point,they had taken my jacket and sweater so I was left standingin the bitterly cold air with just a t-shirt and pants on. Eventhough I was shivering violently and my teeth were chatteringso loudly that I could barely hear anything else, no onewould give me my coat back.Page 18 : Brand News : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Testimonials : Page 19

Within an hour the crime scene was crawling withfirefighters and pigs of all ranks, and I was brought to a copcar to sit in. Two cops asked me more dumb questions thatI refused to answer, one of them sitting with his baton aninch from my side. When he started talking about his relativesbeing in the military, I got visions of him cracking myribs (he didn’t). We waited at the scene for a total of maybethree hours before I was finally driven to some precinctbuilding in the Bronx.After being patted down six or seven more times, I’mfinally put in a brightly lit cinder block cell with a singlewooden bench. More waiting. Cops sporadically come in andout of the room that the cell is in, to look through paper workrelating to my case. Eventually my fingerprints and a photoare taken. Then my stay began to get a bit more interesting.“Hello David, I’m with the FBI.”I had heard cops talking about my case “being transferredto the feds,” but most of them shrugged it o≠. I justkept hoping and hoping that it wouldn’t be. I guess thatnight wasn’t my lucky night. He came up to the bars of mycell and asked if I wanted to talk to him. I said, very politely,that I wanted a lawyer first. He tried to convince me for acouple more minutes, I just repeated myself and he left.This back-and-forth happened two more times. After thesecond time, a couple regular beat cops came in the roomand opened up my cell door. “Come on out.”I walked out to them and they led me to this smallerroom with the door already open. One of the two cops puton latex gloves. We all walked into the room and they pulledthe door closed behind us. One turned to me and hesitantlysaid, “Okay, take o≠ your pants.” I looked up at them and asI painstakingly slowly unbuttoned my jeans, I gave them themost shocked/frightened look I could possibly muster up,and just as I was undoing my zipper one of them said “Okay,never mind, you can go back to your cell.” Success.I don’t know if they specifically meant that incident as away to intimidate me, but not long after, the fed came backagain. I said I wanted my lawyer, as always, and then hestarted to take the “bad cop” approach. He got a little angryand let it be known that he was part of the Joint TerrorismTask Force (JTTF) and that I was facing potential terrorismcharges if I didn’t talk to him. When the “T-word” wasdropped, I’ll admit my heart rate quickened. He startedtalking about prison sentences of 10 or 20 years, and that ifI talked now I would make it easier for myself.Now, I had read so many di≠erent ’zines and articlesabout how talking to the feds or police will never, everimprove your situation. On an intellectual level, I knewthat for sure, but my gut was yelling out that I was fuckedif I didn’t. Before my arrest, I had never speculated aboutwhat jurisdiction my crime would be under if I was caught.It never occurred to me that I would have to face federalcharges with mandatory minimums. If I had thought outthe consequences of being caught, rather than ignoring thepossibility, I would have been in much better shape in thatprison cell.After a bit more arguing with the fed, I finally capitulatedand was brought into the interrogation room. The fedthat I had met before and his partner asked immediatelyabout my connections with the Earth Liberation Front(ELF) and Animal Liberation Front (ALF). I said I had none.Additionally, there was a long line of questioning, that apparentlyhad come from Army Intelligence, about the groupSolidarity. They were asking because I have the word “solidarity”tattooed on my stomach, and they were convincedthat meant I was a member of some socialist group basedin New York. I hadn’t even known that it existed beforethat. On an embarrassing note, their o∞ce ended up gettingharassed by the FBI a week after I was arrested, all becauseof my tattoo. Sorry folks.In the course of about an hour in this small, brightly lit,windowless room, the feds played the “good cop, bad cop”game a bit in the beginning when I was still talking aboutmy lawyer, but once I told them my story, they quit. I toldthem about how I did all of the planning and execution ofthis action alone, how I didn’t know anything about othervandalism that had taken place at an army recruiting centerthat night. They said how the only thing that could reallyimprove my situation was if I agreed to cooperate with themin prosecuting other “radicals.” I told them I didn’t knowanyone else who had radical politics; that I was just a collegekid.If I had mentally prepared myself for the possibility ofbeing caught, I could have dealt with refusing that interrogationa lot better. To understand the consequences ofyour action and be able to deal with them is priceless. Also,I can’t repeat this point enough: talking to cops or feds isnever, ever, ever beneficial. Never. The fact that I talkedwith the feds didn’t prevent them from charging me withthe harshest crime that they could (Arson 3, with a mandatoryminimum of 5 years). I spent the whole rest of my casetrying to work around the fact that the feds had a statementfrom me admitting my guilt.Once the interrogation was finished, I got brought backto my cell. I stayed there for the next couple hours tryingunsuccessfully to sleep, because the light was so bright,and the bench so uncomfortable. Luckily, I wasn’t there formuch longer. One of the feds (the “bad cop”) and one ofthe cops who had originally arrested me came to my celland told me we were leaving. I turned around, they slappedcu≠s on my wrists, and we walked out of the precinct to thefed’s beat-up, unmarked Crown Victoria.The sunlight was glaring, so I figured it was about midday,since they didn’t have clocks anywhere in the precinct.The fed sat up front and the cop sat in the back with me. Imade some remark about not being able to get my seatbelton to the fed and he told me to shut up as he lit a cigarette.Then we were o≠. We headed down the FDR and I lookedaround at the city and tried to memorize everything I sawbecause I had no idea when I’d get to see it all again. Wemade it to the Jacob K. Javits federal building in downtownManhattan, and the fed parked on the street.We went up into the FBI o∞ces, where they put all of myinformation into their computer, including pictures of all mytattoos. It was sort of funny making up explanations for them,like my answer regarding the meaning of my tattoo of a manthrowing a book with a fuse coming out of it at the FederalReserve building: “It means knowledge is power.” Right.After going through the FBI’s o∞ces, I was given to theUS Marshals and brought to their separate o∞ces to be putinto more computers. All of this took a few hours, with allof the waiting handcu≠ed to chairs. It was incredibly disorienting,considering I was never told what was going tohappen next or where I was or what time it was. In fact, Isuddenly found myself handcu≠ed to a chair in this hallwaywhere I was to meet with a lawyer minutes before seeing ajudge.Following my brief meeting with the attorney, I appearedbefore a federal judge. The prosecution asked for bail to beset at $250,000 and my jaw dropped (I didn’t realize youonly had to put up 10% of that amount). My lawyer counteredwith something significantly less, and it ended upbeing set at $150,000. The Legal Aid lawyer I was assignedwas really sweet, so when I turned to him and asked “Whatnow?” he put a hand on my shoulder and said really softlythat I had to go to prison for that night. I was quickly ledaway by the marshals after that.I was moved from cell to cell for the next few hours,neurotically thinking about the di≠erent paths my life couldhave taken, imagining myself as a typical college studentjust “playing the game” as my dad always called it. Thethought of how stupid it was not to have a lookout oftencame up. It was frightening, but more because I had no ideawhat to expect. That’s why the procedures for moving prisonersaround are made to maximize the feelings of anxietythat stem from not knowing what’s coming next. It makesyou feel really powerless.I ended up in a cell with a group of maybe eight men,most in their mid-twenties, all people of color. We were allin shackles, our hands and feet cu≠ed with a chain connectingthe two sets. No one looked angry or upset, even,just exhausted. They all had that weary look in their eye,like they were looking at something in the distance. No onetalked. A few people looked at the half-sleeve tattoo I haveon my right arm and gave me a half a nod. Then a couple ofmarshals came and led us to a van with bars on the windowsthat I found out later would be taking us to the MetropolitanDetention Center in Brooklyn.Pulling up to the jail was pretty ominous, given it wasthe middle of winter, night, and there were high walls allaround us with spotlights shining down. Moving in ourshackles, we were led into more cold holding cells withother people waiting. This whole experience is about waiting.Then moving somewhere else to wait some more. Overand over again. In one of the first waiting rooms, I wasstripped down, had my anus examined, and was given a tan,ill-fitting, itchy jumpsuit and the cheapest shoes I’ve everseen. They then gave us the choice of donating our clothesto the prison, or sending them home. I laughed when theytold me this, and said that they weren’t getting my clothes.No longer in shackles, me and a bunch of other guyswere moved around some more, given ID cards with ournumbers on them, and then finally led up to the cell blockswhere we’d be staying. While I was waiting before we gotthere, some guys in the cell talked to me a bit, I thinkbecause I was one of the youngest guys there. They kind ofreassured me and said that I should just try not to cry, andI’d do okay. I managed to do exactly that until I got to thecell I was assigned to. The other guy in the cell was alreadyasleep on the bottom bunk, so I awkwardly climbed ontothe top bunk, buried my head in my pillow, and bawleduntil I fell asleep.Early in the morning, my cellmate woke me to tell meit was time for a count. He was my age, maybe even a yearyounger, and seemed as unsure about the whole experienceas I did. We both stood by the small window of our cell dooras we waited for the guard to come by and make sure wehadn’t escaped. Then it was time for breakfast. I asked mycellmate if I actually had to go and he shook his head, so Ijust went back to sleep. Lunch came and I woke up, lookedaround, and went to sleep again.As dinner rolled around, I found that no matter howhard I tried I could not sleep a single second longer. I managedto rouse myself, jump down and use the toothbrushthat I’d been given the night before. I finally saw the cell,and it was sparse. A toilet, sink, tiny window, bunk beds andtwo small lockers giving not much in the way of comfort.I ventured out into the main hall. It was a big, openspace with tables that had the food serving area on the left,a basketball court in a connected room, and circling threequarters of the room were two tiers of cells with two staircasesleading from the top tier to the floor. When I came outof my cell, there was a line of inmates snaking around theroom waiting for dinner. I jumped in line and once I got tothe food realized that the only vegan options were corn andwhite rice, neither known for their nutritional value. Nomatter, I didn’t have that much of an appetite anyway, afterthinking about my legal predicament.With little else to do after finishing, I pulled up a chair infront of the two televisions, and read the subtitles that werescrolling below. I was dying for something more substantialto read but there was nothing in sight. The whole time I satthere, I was hoping my name was going to be called to tellme I had been bailed out. I had my lawyer’s business cardwith me, so I kept leaving messages on the legal aid voicemailservice asking him what was going on with my case,even though he couldn’t have responded.As I was watching TV, I heard somebody calling “Heyyou” in my direction, and when I looked up I saw this guybeckoning me over. A little hesitant, I got up and sat downat a table with him and three other guys. They all had beenlooking at the tattoo on my arm and wanted to see it upclose. All of them were impressed, and started talking abouttheir tattoos. When they got around to asking me what Iwas in for, I told them that I was accused of setting fire toan Army Recruitment center. They all started cracking up.“Yo, why’d you get your crime tattooed on your arm?” Icouldn’t help but laugh.Page 20 : Testimonials : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Testimonials : Page 21

We bullshitted for a couple more hours (mostly themspouting sexist rhetoric) and they gave me advice whichamounted to obeying the concept of “doing your own time.”In other words, minding your own business and gettingthrough your sentence without causing a stir. Although Iwas more interested in finding ways to radicalize prisoners,I just nodded and agreed. While talking to people helpedget my mind o≠ my situation, it all came rushing back onceit was lights o≠ at ten. Then all I had to occupy myself withwas my thoughts, and I inevitably ended up crying into mypillow again until I fell asleep.By the next day, I had resigned myself to the idea of notgetting out on bail. I hadn’t had my name called to go tocourt or anything, so I guessed that my parents had heardwhat happened and were disgusted. Memories came rushingback of the time my dad refused to pick me up after Ifell asleep at the wheel and wrecked my car. I started tryingto find ways to fill the time besides TV. I worked out a littlebit in my cell, borrowed a newspaper from someone, leftmessages for my lawyer, and wandered in circles aroundthe cell block. As far as food went, I kept asking the guardsabout vegetarian meals and they just ignored me, so I hada tiny piece of breaded chicken along with the soggy, limpvegetables at dinner. I didn’t understand at the time thepotential outside support that existed for vegan prisoners.I just figured I was going to starve to death. That night Imanaged to only cry a little, as I started to get used to theidea of prison.As it turned out, I wouldn’t have to get used to it. Atabout five in the morning, the guard came into my roomand woke me up to tell me I was going to court that day. Iliterally jumped out of bed, threw on my shoes and stoodin front of my door looking out the window waiting for theguard to come and open it up. An hour later he finally cameback and I moved out into the main hall to sit with a fewother guys who were going to court that day. It took at leastanother hour and a half before we were finally all shackledand ready to load into the van to go back to Manhattan.It was well past noon by the time I stood before thejudge. My lawyer informed me that my parents and mysister had been cosigners to my bail and the terms of myrelease were decided. When my next appearance date wasset, concluding the hearing, I figured I would be allowed togo free. On the contrary, I ended up being led back to thecell that I came from. Everyone else in the cell told me howI was definitely going to have to spend the night in prisonagain because that was normal procedure. Then I just hadto wait there, not knowing what was going to happen.The guards would show up periodically taking someonefrom the cell with them, and they finally came for me. Allof a sudden I was in a room where my literal and figurativechains were taken o≠ and I was given a pile of clothes thatmy mom had brought from home. A marshal stood outsideand kept shouting at me to move faster, but I knew therewas nothing he could do to me since I was getting out, so Ijust ignored him and it felt great.Finally, as I stepped out of one last door, I saw my momstanding there. I didn’t really know what to say so I justgave her a hug and we walked out. Luckily, my attorney hadtold her that she should never discuss the case with me soI never had to have any awkward conversations about myactions, which made the ride home a lot easier. Before wecould leave, though, we had to stop at my lawyer’s o∞ce.There he laid out the whole situation for me. I’d be lookingat a mandatory minimum of five years under the federallaws regarding arson. As he explained it to me, the onlyway to get around that was to agree to inform on people forthe FBI. I told him what I had told the feds before: “I don’tknow anybody who’s into politics.”So, when my mom and I left the o∞ce that day I wasfacing a mandatory five years without any apparent wayaround it. Over the next few months, I came down for variousstatus checks with the judge, but most importantly, Iwas introduced to Marty Stolar. A friend of a friend calledme and said it would serve me well to have Marty as mylawyer, instead of someone from Legal Aid. There was a lotof wrangling with my parents over the issue since they wereafraid that Marty would turn it into a “political case.” I waskind of at a loss to understand how it could not be a politicalcase, but I just said that with the Legal Aid attorney, Iwas just waiting it out until I could start serving my fiveyears. With Marty, at least we’d have a fighting chance ofgetting a deal.So, with the tuition money my school had refunded meafter they kicked me out (at the request of the ROTC), myfamily and I retained Marty as my attorney. It was the bestdecision I’ve ever made. While I worked doing landscapingin Connecticut, Marty was busy hounding the Assistant DistrictAttorney for a plea bargain, which they were initiallyrefusing to even o≠er. At the same time, my friends fromNew York were calling me and asking what they could do tohelp, which at the time wasn’t a lot since Marty wanted tokeep everything as low profile as possible. The best supportthe anarchist community in NYC gave me, though,was making me feel so welcome when I would come downto visit on my days o≠. There is no way I would have beenable to stay strong throughout my case if I hadn’t had such asupportive group of people. With my future being so unsure,and me being isolated in Connecticut, I just wanted to feellike I was not alone with this, which I never did.After some failed attempts at getting a plea bargain, dueto intense resistance at the Washington level, Marty finallyhad a breakthrough; I would plead guilty to felony “maliciousmischief” which didn’t carry a mandatory minimum.The maximum sentence was ten years, though, whichwould give the judge a lot of leeway. In order to help mychance of getting a short or suspended sentence, Marty andI put together a packet of letters from professors, teachersand others speaking highly of me, as well as a psychologicalevaluation that said I was on sound mental footing.Once again, there was more waiting in the dark to dealwith in this portion of my case as well. It would be monthsbefore I would hear of any new developments from thegovernment, so I would just do my best to live my life inConnecticut, visiting NYC when I could (the only two regionsin which I was allowed to travel). While I was waitingaround, I kept hearing reports of anarchists being arrestedall around the country, including NYC, as part of the FBI’sintensified campaign against us. Even though I was upsetover my own situation, when I heard of people havingpossible life sentences levied against them, my case didn’tseem so dire. Then, nearly a year after I had first broken theglass of that Army recruiting center, I traveled to downtownManhattan to appear at my sentencing.In the course of berating me for my actions, JudgeRichard Berman remarked that my plea bargain was the“most extraordinary he had ever seen” and that I probablydeserved worse. I ended up receiving a six month sentence,followed by four months of house arrest as part of threeyears of supervised release, along with some assorted fines.Additionally, we had the judge write that I needed to begiven vegan food. The entire time this was being read tome, I thought of the others who had committed crimes notmuch more e≠ective than mine, but were in the process ofserving much more lengthy sentences.I was lucky in a lot of di≠erent ways. I was lucky to beboth white and upper middle class, to have the resourcesavailable to hire a private lawyer and a family that was willingto let me stay with them as I was weathering this out. Irealize that these things are rare and that the outcome of mycase was dependent upon them. At the same time, I knowthat had I not been supported by the anarchist communitynot only in New York, but in Connecticut and Kansas andother places, my sense of self and direction would havebeen completely lost. If you are wrapped up in the legalsystem for committing a politically motivated crime, andyou are without a group of people to help you sustain youridentity and beliefs, you’ll be adrift.It’s easy to slip into tunnel vision and lose sight of thebigger picture of worldwide resistance to oppression whenyou are facing such specific repression. Without that greaterpicture, though, it’s a lot easier to lose your hope and convictionthat led you to commit the act in the first place. Whetheryou are behind bars or free, you have to place yourself inthe context of a broader movement. That’s the only way thatyou can stay strong when you are completely unaware ofwhat’s going to happen to you. I only hope that others whohave been subjected to the repression of the state have thehelp of their local communities to do exactly that.note to the FBI:you can catch an arsonistbut you can’t catch fire(or can you?)Page 22 : Testimonials : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Testimonials : Page 23

Anti-Nationalist Nationalism:The Anti-German Critique andIts All-Too-German AdherentsBack in the 1990s, answering mail forthe ’zine I used to publish, I noticed thatGermans—even German anarchists—respondedstrangely whenever the conflictbetween Israel and Palestine came up.Every time anything related to the issueappeared in my ’zine, I got a lengthy letterfrom an irate German accusing me ofPalestinian nationalism or even borderlineanti-Semitism. I never once received sucha letter from citizens of any other nation,even though the ’zine was distributed asfar as Israel, nor did I ever receive onefrom a Jewish reader of any nationality.From my perspective, the positions inthe ’zine on that issue were not particularlycontroversial: like most others inthe anarchist community, I deplored theviolence and racism of the Israeli militaryand the Zionist settler movement, whileremaining suspicious of those seekingto capitalize on what I considered understandablePalestinian desperation. At thetime, I interpreted these letters as nothingmore than an overzealous e¤ort on the partof some Germans to be sensitive aboutissues a¤ecting Jewish people.I returned to Europe last fall for thefirst time in some years. In the courseof my travels, I discovered that what hadseemed like a minor blind spot in the Germanradical milieu had evolved into whatI regard as a really problematic strain ofthought: the “Anti-German Critique,” areactionary nationalism that masqueradesas radical anti-nationalism. For adherentsof this ideology, the important thing is notto oppose capitalism, racism, and hierarchyeverywhere, but to oppose GermanyPage 24 : Testimonials : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006and anti-Semitism specifically, even tothe extent of supporting other capitalistnations and other forms of racism 1 .Revolutions being unforthcoming, Anti-German antifascists settle for supportingthe current government of Israel, all theinjustices it perpetrates notwithstanding,on account of the injustices perpetratedby its opponents.At first, I only came across hints of this.Climbing the immense stairwell of the EKH,Vienna’s longstanding squatted socialcenter, I came upon a little exhortationscrawled on the wall: “Support Zionism.”That’s strange, I thought to myself: here,in an anarchist stronghold, graªti urgingpeople to rally to a cause already receivingmore support from the United States thanany other government in the world, andresponsible for the displacement and repressionof an entire population of peopleof color. In the ageless tradition of markerbearingsquatters, I added a little messageof my own: “down with all isms—supportpeople, not nations.”The following week found me staying1 The word racism is used in this text to call attentionto the double standards so many whitepeople bring to their considerations of the Palestine/Israelconflict. One must be a racist to comparethe living conditions of average Palestinianand Israeli families today and not see injustice,however things stand in the gang war. It’s alsoimpossible to describe the policies of the Israeligovernment, which disenfranchise, dominate, andhumiliate Palestinians the same way apartheiddid native Africans in South Africa, as anythingless than racist. Some Palestinians might alsobe described as having racist ideas, but they arehardly in a position to subject Israelis en masseto such dehumanizing treatment.Deutsch anti-fascism——or anti-Deutsch …ism?at a social center in Dresden. Among theother occupants of the space were two Israelis,who—like many young Israelis I hadmet upon earlier visits to Europe 2 —weretraveling the continent in order to avoidthe draft that compels Israelis to serve inthe military. I fell to talking politics withone of them. He declined to take a positionon the Israel-Palestine conflict—anadmirable enough stance for a personcoming from such a complicated situation,who had accepted exile rather thanrisk killing or dying for a cause in whichhe did not believe.Others in Germany had not respectedhis decision, however. He recounted to mehis experience traveling for a few days witha German band; when it came out thathe was avoiding military service, anotherperson on the tour—a German gentile,otherwise committed to revolutionarypolitics—was outraged: “You mean youwouldn’t serve to protect your people?You coward!”Scarcely two days later, during anantifascist action in Leipzig, I had myfirst brush with Anti-Germans. I’ll spareyou the details of my participation in theevent—suªce it to say my friends and Ispent hours wandering around peeringat photocopied maps, followed by a fewexhilarating minutes being pursued byriot police through cordoned-o¤ streets2 Among others, I had spent time with membersof the band Dir Yassin, an anarchist and anti-Zionistband from Israel. They were interviewed in theanarcho-punk magazine Profane Existence in 1998,and with luck you can still find the interview at www.angelfire.com/il/deiryassin/peinter.htm.and over spiked fences, and in the endthe scheduled fascist march was thwarted.After traveling throughout southern andeastern Europe, where fascism is gainingmore and more power, it was a real reliefto see it being held at bay somewhere.It was not so encouraging, however, tosee US, Israeli, and British flags beingunloaded at the departure point of anantifascist march.I went immediately over to the youngmen unloading them. My German friend hadurged me not to waste my time, but whetheror not they would listen to me I was curiouswhat they had to say for themselves.“What are you doing with that flag?” Igestured at the stars and stripes one youngfellow was pulling from the truck.“We are going to march with it.”“I’m from the United States,” I began,“and I can’t fucking believe you wouldmarch with a US flag at this rally. Don’tyou know what this flag means?”“But it is di¤erent here! Here, this flagis a symbol of the antifascist struggle.”“Listen, everywhere in the world thatflag represents the same things: Hollywood,Coca-Cola, the absolute power ofthe capitalist market. What does that haveto do with freedom?”His answer was almost plaintive. “ButBritain and the United States beat theGerman government! They were the onlyones who could do it. We carry their flagsto remember this.”“They fought that war with their armiessegregated into black and white divisions,and Japanese citizens in internmentcamps! They weren’t fighting for freedom,but for their own national power—just likein the genocidal wars against the NativeAmericans! That flag is stained with theblood of millions!”“But they were the only ones who couldstop the Nazis here,” he repeated, almostsheepishly. I hadn’t caught myself a particularlyfierce Anti-German.“That war only happened because peoplewere willing to march under flags inthe first place, and we could have wonit without flags if people like you didn’tinsist on them. If you’re going to marchwith that flag, count me out, and everyantifascist like me in the US would do thesame.” I left to find my own route to blockthe fascists—hence the crazy chase sceneinvolving the spiked fence.In these pictures you see(circle all that apply):That night, sporting a limp that lastedfor weeks, I stayed at a squat in Erfurt. Here,someone had gone around to every posterthat had read “Antifascist” and blackedout “fascist” to replace it with “Deutsch.”What kind of people thought it was moreimportant to take at stand against Deutschlandthan against fascism?It wasn’t until Hamburg, my last stop inGermany, that I got to have the discussionI’d wanted with a real live Anti-German. Itwas someone I knew: back in the ’90s, hehad booked my old punk rock band at asocial center in Germany. He was thinnernow, with a more haughty, intellectual airabout him and a pencil-thin moustache.“Yes,” he was saying, “but your newband is… not so good, yes?” He noddedto me, eyebrows raised.“We’re a new band,” I replied, gamely.“We’ve just learned new instruments. Overtime, I hope we’ll improve. But yes, rightnow, perhaps we are not so good.”“Your last band”—he paused for dramatice¤ect—“did not improve with time,I think. I saw you at the beginning of yourlast tour, and then at the end. Do youremember?”“Yes, of course. I agree.” Humility isthe better part of celebrity, if you want tolast an hour in punk circles.“You know,” he said, leaning his headback and looking into the middle distance,“I think when I first started to lose interest,a. a Jewish parent and an innocent childb. a Jewish parent and a prospective soldierc. an Arab parent and an innocent childd. an Arab parent and a potential terroristit was when the record came out with thesong about Intifada 3 .”“Aha!” I exclaimed, practically poundingmy fist upon the ubiquitous foosballtable—the game is known as “kicker” inGermany, and heaven help any foreignerwho takes on even the drunkest of nativeplayers. “An Anti-German! I’ve been waitingfor this! Let’s get down to business.”3 The o¤ending song, named “Called Terrorists byTerrorists,” was explained thus in the liner notes:“The title of this song refers to the well-knownmurder of United Nations mediator Count FolkeBernadotte, who was killed on orders from futureIsraeli politician Yitzhak Shamir. Bernadotte wasappointed in 1948 to negotiate between the Palestiniannatives and the Zionists who were attemptingto establish an Israeli state in their homeland; hewas the former head of the Swedish Red Cross, andhad risked his life to save thousands of Jews fromconcentration camps during the second world war.After months of studying the situation, Bernadotteconcluded that in the interests of human decency ifthe Zionists were to eventually be given sovereigntyover a part of Palestine, Palestinian refugees whohad been driven out by Zionist violence should begiven two options: they should be allowed to returnto their stolen lands, or else receive compensationfrom the new nation of Israel for what had beentaken from them. The day after he made his proposal,he was killed by Zionist terrorists carryingout Shamir’s instructions. Years later, supportedby a media blackout on the past and the fact thathistory is always written by the victors, Shamir wasable to join other world leaders in referring to thePalestinians who still resisted the racist repressionof his regime as ‘terrorists’ without anyone bringingup his own blood-soaked past.”Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Testimonials : Page 25

“Yes, I think there is a lot where we donot agree! But maybe there is no reasoneven to talk about it.” He darted me asidelong glance. “For example, you saidyou live in the woods—you are againsttechnology and civilization, yes? But forus, you know, we think that technologyis just something that works. It spreads,because it works.”He had my complete attention now.“And other peoples who are less, shall wesay, advanced…?”“Ah, I see what you suggest. Yes, somemight say that this is a Western-centeredview. But people around the world are takingup this lifestyle as fast as they can.”“But you really can’t argue that everythingthat spreads is a good thing. Youknow, a plague also spreads. A plaguespreads because it works! And anyway, I amnot against all technology—just technologiesthat promote hierarchy or water downour experience of life. Besides, if everyonelived the way people in Germany and theUS live, the planet would be wrecked inone generation.”“A plague spreads because it works,” herepeated, nodding in slit-eyed appreciationof my clever rejoinder.I learned later, in my research into Anti-German thought, that indeed, some Anti-German writers conceive of world historyin terms of the progress of civilization (i.e.,Western civilization), with the implicationthat other cultures are primitive. This is anold-fashioned Marxist analysis, in whichcapitalist technocracy is a stage of humanevolution that must be passed through onthe way to communist utopia; this wasthe excuse the Bolsheviks and Maoistsgave for forcing millions to give up theirtraditional lifestyles in order to join the machineryof industrial communism. “Thereis something worse than capitalism andbourgeois society: its barbarous abolition,”writes one Anti-German, and he goes on tomake it explicit that he is referring to Arabicnationalism as well as German fascism.Thinking this way makes it easy enoughto pose Israel and the United States asthe flagships of culture and progress, andthose dirty Arabs as the savages to whomthe torch of Nazi irrationality and brutalityhas been passed.But let’s return to the conversation inHamburg. “But what are the US flags forin the demonstrations?” I demanded.“Ah, they are a joke, to wind people up,”he explained. “There are certain people itis important to piss o¤ with these flags.You know, in Germany, the right wingexploits the whole anti-American thingfor its own purposes.”“But isn’t it totally reactionary to carrythem just because they bother yourenemies? Does that mean you have toembrace the flag of such a destructive,oppressive nation?”As I discovered later in my studies,if he had been a true hard-line Anti-Germanhe would have explained to me that,because the US provides Israel with themoney and guns to hold the entire MiddleEast at bay and do to the Palestinians asthey please, it is not a destructive nationat all, but the foremost protector of peace.Instead, he opted for a more conciliatoryapproach: “This is a German thing, specialto our German context. Here, where theholocaust took place, our most importantjob is to fight German power, and for thisthe flags are good.”I reflected a minute. “Isn’t it very Germanto claim that in the German context,you have a special privileged perspectivethat justifies actions that don’t make senseanywhere else?”As their name implies, Anti-Germansput quite a bit of energy into establishingthe special status of the German nation-stateas an evil more terrible thanany other. Accordingly, my companionlaunched into an explanation of why theHolocaust happened in Germany, why itcould only happen in Germany, and whyit was worse than any other atrocity inhistory. To hear him tell it, the status ofthe German state as perpetrator of themost terrible of all crimes grants certainspecial rights and powers of observationto its citizens: knowing anti-Semitism betterthan anyone else, they can see moreclearly than others that it is still the mostserious danger facing the world.I wasn’t able to follow his argumentthis far, though, as I was still getting overmy shock at his dismissal of others’ racistoppression and slaughter. “Wait, whatabout the extermination of the NativeAmericans?”“That was di¤erent: that was simplya conflict over land and resources, and itwas concluded when the last of the Indianssurrendered. The Jews were law-abiding“The idea that an understanding ofgenocide, that a memory of holocaustscan only lead people to wantto dismantle the system is erroneous.The continuing appeal of nationalismsuggests that the opposite is true:that an understanding of genocidehas led people to mobilize genocidalarmies, that the memory of holocaustshas led people to perpetuateholocausts. The sensitive poets whoremembered the loss, the researcherswho documented it, have been likethe pure scientists who discoveredthe structure of the atom. Applied scientistsused the discovery to split theatom’s nucleus, to produce weaponswhich can split every atom’s nucleus;nationalists use the poetry to splitand fuse human populations, to mobilizegenocidal armies, to perpetratenew holocausts.”–Fredy Perlman, The ContinuingAppeal of NationalismGerman citizens, and were singled out forpurely racist, ideological reasons. You’llprobably say that there were people in thedeath camps besides the Jews; but the Jewswere the real targets of the Shoah 4 .”“Of course, Jewish people now have themeans to talk about their experiences in thedeath camps, whereas the Romani people,who are still oppressed and dispossessedeverywhere, are unable to get a hearing.”“Don’t you think that sort of rhetoricis a little anti-Semitic, like saying there isa worldwide Jewish conspiracy?”“It’s very convenient for a gentile likeyou to call everyone who disagrees anti-Semitic! You’ll recall that the last time Iwas here with a band that talked aboutIsrael and Palestine, half of us were Jewish.Anyway, what about my earlier question?Isn’t it nationalist to consider Deutschculture a context unto itself apart from theinternational context? What ever happenedto ‘no borders, no nations’?”He answered me with a phrase thatsummarized everything for me: “But thatdoes not take into account our specialsituation. Here we say, ‘destroy all nations,but Israel last.’”In this formulation, we arrive at thecentral fallacy of the pro-Zionist position:the idea that nations protect their citizens.This is a fundamental misunderstanding of4 “Shoah” is a Hebrew word for the Holocaust.the way state power works. Each governmentargues to its citizens that it existsto protect them from other governments;but when nations fight, it is not governorsthat die, but their citizens. Thousandsupon thousands upon thousands of Israelishave died since the formation ofIsrael in 1948. Former terrorists such asShamir and Sharon have risen to powerupon waves of fear, assuring their constituentsthat if anyone is to su¤er, itwill be Arabs—but their policies havecontinued to result in the loss of Israelilives, while they die of old age 5 .Compared to the aforementionedRomani people, who are still persecutedacross the whole of Europe, onemight even say the Israelis have it worse:thanks to billions and billions of dollarsfrom the United States, they are able tomaintain an artificially high standardof living, but at any moment a suicidebomber may kill them or their lovedones. One must wonder if, given theopportunity, most Romani people wouldopt for power and luxury beneath thesword of Damocles over their currentcircumstances. Had they somehow beenchosen by destiny to force a people outof their homeland and carry on a USfinancedwar against their neighbors forthe past half-century, the results wouldsurely be similar.Neither fate, of course, is desirable.If Jews today were in the same situationas the Romani, that would also be aterrible tragedy. But let us not imaginethat those are the only two possibilitiesfor survivors of the Holocaust. Such alack of imagination, that reduces allquestions to a matter of picking thelesser of two evils, is at the heart ofall the impasses that face us acrossthe world today. It is the same lack ofimagination that led people to mobilizearound Kerry against Bush, rather thanopposing the US government itself; itis the same lack of imagination thatinduces the Anti-Germans to side withthe state of Israel against its enemies,5 With the exception, of course, of Israeli primeminister Yitzhak Rabin, who was assassinatedby a Zionist Jew for fear he might make progresstowards a peaceful and just solution to the conflict.One would think this, if anything, wouldhave turned the Israeli public against militantZionism—but no, he was succeeded in powerby a right wing hardliner.rather than with us against nationalismand enmity themselves.To be sure, most of the Jews whohave been murdered worldwide overthe past six decades have been killed byanti-Semites. Anti-Semitism has flourishedamong Arabs; much is made ofthis by the Anti-Germans, who traceArabic nationalism back to early connectionsbetween certain Arabs andGerman Nazis. But these few connectionswould have been meaningless ifArabic anti-Semites had not been ableto make use of Israeli atrocities in theyears that followed to recruit converts.The violence in the Middle East todayis not the direct successor to the NaziHolocaust; rather, it is the result of theviolence committed by survivors of thatHolocaust, who became abusers in theirturn—as survivors of trauma all toooften do.Until now, we have barely touchedupon the number of Palestinians andother Arabs who have su¤ered at thehands of the Israeli state. If one is makingan argument for nations as protectorsof human beings, one must takeall human beings into account, not onlythe citizens of certain nations—unlessone believes the others to be subhuman.Here we can see that the cost ofthe establishment and perpetuation ofthe state of Israel has been colossal interms of the su¤ering and death of bothIsraelis and Palestinians.As anarchists, we can find the explanationfor this not in the innate bloodthirstinessand anti-Semitism of Arabs(nor the imperialistic machinations ofJews, for that matter), but in the waynationalists and nation-states pit humanbeings against one another. For us, theanswer is clear: we must struggle againstthe governments of Israel and Palestine,as well as those of the US, Germany, andall other nations. So long as one intolerant,violent, self-interested governmentis able to carry on unchallenged, it willbe all too easy for rival governments tomuster frightened adherents to commitmurderous acts as well. So-called pragmatistswho insist that we must supportone or another of these gangs wouldhave us perpetuate the whole mess intoeternity. We can find our solidarity withall Palestinians and Israelis who strugglePage 26 : Testimonials : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Testimonials : Page 27

Look at all those Israeli flags! When youhate your country for what it did to others,and therefore must struggle with the questionof whether you should hate yourself,identifying with the descendents of those“others” is one solution—and maybe thequickest way to accomplish that is tochoose the same enemies they have, evenif they did not choose those enemies.against their own rulers on the basis of arecognition of each other’s humanity 6 .Before we conclude, let’s revisit theorigins and mentality of the Anti-Germanideology, as it exemplifies many of the potentialpitfalls for radicals in today’s globalcontext. Long before the Nazis came topower in Germany, opposition to capitalismand the rich was often directed againstcaricatures of “the International Jew.” ManyGerman nationalists considered the proletariatto be composed of non-JewishGermans, who were supposedly preyedupon by Jewish money lenders; the implicationwas that by getting rid of the Jews,the capitalist system could be symbolicallycleansed of its parasites. Anti-Semitismwas taken for granted in many revolutionarycircles: Bakunin made anti-Semiticremarks, and Mussolini himself started outwith an interest in anarchism. Revolutionaryworking class activism was co-opted bynational socialism such as that of Mussolini’sblackshirts no less than by nationalistsocialism such as that of the Bolsheviks.This checkered heritage makes it easy forthe Anti-Germans to read anti-Semitismin the radicalism of their contemporaries,whether it’s there or not.Today, fascists in Germany and othernations have similarly muddied issues byadopting environmentalist and anti-globalizationstances. It would be nice to stop atthe conclusion that the Anti-Germans havesimply been provoked by their enemiesinto thoughtlessly adopting contradictorypositions, but the fact that they havecrossed into nationalism and borderlineracism suggests something more insidious:that in setting out to resist fascism,they have been infected by it, perhaps asa result of the same German predispositionsthey aim to oppose. In studying theirexample, we can recognize the importanceof developing a nuanced critique of powerrelations, but we are also reminded ofNietzsche’s dictum that those who dobattle with monsters must take care lestthey become monsters themselves.Every holocaust justifies itself on thepretext of protecting innocents. In the US,during the extermination of Native Americans(and, later, during the segregation era),white women were said to be threatenedby colored savages; in Nazi Germany, citizensof pure “Aryan blood” were fetishizedas victims of a worldwide conspiracy ofdegenerates. In coming to see the Jewishpeople as a category—“the” endangered,“the” victims of oppression—rather thancommitting to a struggle against injusticeeverywhere and in all forms, the Anti-Germansset the stage for themselves to endas abettors of racist, nationalist war. It iseasy to see how German radicals, eager todistance themselves from their nation’santi-Semitic history and desperate to opposea resurgent fascist movement, mightprioritize Jewish concerns over others. Butthis is sometimes how new atrocities occur:the survivors of persecution becomepersecutors, and others, anxious to atonefor condoning their former persecution,turn a blind eye.Anti-German partisanship for Israel,once set in motion, did not lack justificationand encouragement: there is an entirepropaganda industry given over to rationalizingIsraeli policy, just as there is anothergiven to taking advantage of it to mobilizeArabic resistance groups. Zionist Israelisare indeed victims in the Israel-Palestineconflict, as are Palestinian suicide bombers;the problem is that both fight not to endthe conflict but to win it. The Anti-Germanphenomenon should remind anarchistsnot to hurry to pick sides in national andethnic strife; we must, rather, side withwhatever parts of those struggling resonatewith our desires to supercede the terms ofsuch conflicts, however buried those partsmay be. We can intercede in the mannerdemonstrated by Rachel Corrie, the USactivist killed by a bulldozer of the IsraeliDefense Force while fighting to protectPalestinian homes: not so that one sidemay triumph, but to help human beingssurvive an inhuman conflict.All this is complicated, for sure. In aworld in which seemingly everybody is linedup on one side or another of such conflicts,it seems those who would take sides witheveryone against conflict itself find themselvesapart from everyone else, even atodds with them. But again, let us learnfrom the Anti-Germans: those who resignthemselves to the failure of revolutionaryprospects turn, defensively, into the verymonsters they so recently opposed.6 In that spirit, I’d like to conclude this text with apoem by leading Israeli author Aharon Shabtai:I, too, have declared war:You’ll need to divert part of the forcedeployed to wipe out the Arabs—to drive them out of their homesand expropriate their land—and set it against me.You’ve got tanks and planes,and soldiers by the battalion;you’ve got the rams’ horns in your handswith which to rouse the masses;you’ve got men to interrogate and torture;you’ve got cells for detention.I have only this heartwith which I give shelterto an Arab child.Aim your weaponts at it:even if you blow it apartit will always,always mock you.Report from the Hothouse:The Tomato PickersCrimethInc. Field Agent Guero Flaco spent four months working and livingundercover in a forty-two-acre greenhouse complex at the pulsing heart ofNorth America’s greenhouse tomato industry, which relies almost exclusivelyon contracted laborers from Mexico and the Caribbean. He wrote these lettersby flashlight from his bunk inside the warehouse dorm room.In order to protect the folks beside whom he worked, he asks that this article not bereproduced without his permission. He can be reached at chupatinta@gmail.com.Page 28 : Testimonials : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Testimonials : Page 29

Strange DreamsThis place breeds strange dreams. After my first weekof work, I dreamt that Sylvio, the owner of the greenhouse,was showing me around. We were inside an enormouswarehouse. Sylvio was dressed like Laurence Fishburne inThe Matrix. His footsteps echoed as he escorted me towardsa large radiant doorway. Beyond the doorway was a vastgreenhouse that stretched to the horizon in every direction.I could smell tear gas, and the heat was stifling. I sawstooped figures below, tending what I first thought weretomato plants.I looked more closely and saw that the vines were asthick as trees, and what I thought were tomatoes were largered sacks filled with fluid. Each sack held a human beingcurled like a fist. They were all unconscious, and fed intravenouslyon the dreams of some giant machine.One of the workers looked my way, and spoke to me ina language I didn’t understand. He had darker skin thanmost of the people inside the tomatoes. I looked again at thepeople in utero and began to recognize friends and familymembers. I spoke, but couldn’t hear my own voice. Sylviosaid, Welcome to the greenhouse of the real. And I woke upbefore dawn in a room with twelve bunk beds, in the middleof a warehouse. Someone was blasting norteño music, and itwas almost time for work.Living QuartersI live with forty-four Mexican men in one of the company’sthree packing warehouses. The same number ofMexicans live in a second warehouse, and Jamaican andVietnamese workers share rooms in a third. All forty-fiveof us sleep in four bunkrooms upstairs inside the dimly litwarehouse. There are no dressers in the bunkrooms; wekeep our clothes in crates and boxes, or hang them fromrods strung to the exposed heating and cooling pipes aboveour heads.To get to the washroom and the kitchen, we pass down along hallway, descend a metal staircase, and cross the warehousefloor. The washroom sports a sign reading “MENS.”Directly beside it is a door marked:Chemical Room / DANGER / KEEP OUTPoison / Chemical Storage.There are forklifts and golf carts parked here and thereon the warehouse floor. Crates and flats are stacked to theceiling, two or three stories high. It’s hot and loud becauseof the enormous boiler, and flies buzz all around. A singlepicnic table is pushed against one wall beside two coca colavending machines that read THIRSTY? This is our livingroom. When the phone on the wall (our only incoming line)receives an incoming call, it automatically switches over toa squealing fax machine after one full ring (it doubles as thecompany fax line), and automatically hangs up after two.Apart from the payphones in town, this is our only link tothe outside world.The kitchen isn’t big enough to accommodate everyoneat once, so we take our breaks and our lunch hour inshifts—half of us eat at noon, half at one o’clock. One wallis lined with propane stoves; another with fridges, washingmachines, and dryers. A third wall sports a long trough sink,and the fourth, rows of tomato crates stacked on shelves,where we keep our food, utensils, pots and pans. There areno cupboards, and due to the lack of space, about a third ofus have to keep our groceries and utensils on the floor.Our kitchen, incidentally, is infested with cockroaches.They nest under the tablecloths and packages of food onthe floor, and skitter over and through the crates where westore our food. This morning one crawled out of my cornflakes as I was about to pour the milk in. Not without sympathy,my friend Kiko, who sits across from me at breakfast,remarked that cockroaches have been around since the timeof the dinosaurs and would be here long after humans haddisappeared, so I might as well get used to them. Acceptingthe wisdom of his remark, I ate my cereal, not wanting tostart the day hungry.We work ten to twelve hours a day, except on Sundays,when we usually work a half day. In the vines we chatterback and forth as we move quickly up and down the rows,picking tomatoes and clipping o≠ the attached stems.The Mexican workers teach me Spanish and I teach themEnglish—a few useful words and phrases here and there. Asthe day wears on and the temperature rises, we graduallyfall into a silence broken only by the clipping of stems, therattle of carts, and the roar of the forklift engine.This particular greenhouse, I should add, is nowherenear the worst of the workplaces that employ migrant farmlabor. My co-workers aren’t hit, or kicked, or ridiculed atwork. We are almost always paid on time. As long as wework fast, no one yells at us to work faster. We never have towork a 20-hour day, or a 100-hour week. As many of my coworkerscan testify from first-hand experience, all of thesethings have happened on other farms and greenhouses notso far from here. Constantly reminding themselves of thisfact, my co-workers keep their heads down and endure theovercrowding, the infested kitchen, and a host of othersmall and great indignities. It could be worse is the constantrefrain, as I know it is on most farms. The knowledge thatthey could be sent somewhere worse does more to keepworkers in line than any threat the boss could make.Palm Pilot PanopticonMaybe it’s the heat or the long hours, but it isn’t onlyin my dreams that this place reminds me of The Matrix—aplace where computers have achieved complete and seamlesscontrol over human life. I feel like I’ve taken the red pilland broken free of something, seeing for the first time thegears of the machinery of modern life that usually remainhidden from those of us privileged enough to be ignorant ofsuch things.This is by far the most technologically sophisticatedworkplace I’ve ever seen. The environment inside thegreenhouse is entirely computer-controlled, heated withsteam and hot water from an immense system of boilers andpipes and cooled with fans and mechanized louvers. Thetomato vines grow unnaturally long, sustained by complicatedlife-support systems: automatically watered by tubes,rooted in “Horticultural Rock Wool,” doused in chemicals,stretched and swollen by fertilizers, strung up on stringsand pruned of leaves, stripped of suckers and pollinated bybees that live in cardboard box hives stacked here and therelike miniature condominium developments. The hives inevitablydwindle as the bees succumb to the pesticides; theyare replaced by new stacks of cardboard box hives.The entire complex is e≠ectively under 24-hour lockdown.We use round magnetic “keys” to enter and leave thewarehouse, and a piercing alarm sounds whenever a dooris held open too long. Every employee is given a plastictimecard, and we swipe in and out at the beginning and endof every workday. A sign beside the time box warns us, NOPUNCH NO PAY.Most ominous of all, we are all issued palm pilotssealed in aqua packs. We wear them on strings attached toour belts or slung over our shoulders, and as we work werecord everything we do on them. Every morning I entermy employee number, my task, and the greenhouse androw number. The thing then starts timing me, and continuesuntil I tell it I’ve finished the row, or taken a break, orswitched to something else. Then, if I’m picking, I enterhow many crates I’ve picked. Crate by crate, row by row,every minute of the day is precisely accounted for.After work each day we line up to place our palm pilotson metal pads in front of the o∞ce, from which the datawe’ve generated is uploaded to some giant database. Ourmachines (this is what we call them—nuestras maquinas)then give us an “e∞ciency rating” expressed as a percentage.“109,” my machine might blip at the end of a particularlyhard day, meaning I’ve performed 109 percent of somearbitrary measure of an acceptable day’s work, as determinedby some English-speaker in a business suit.When the “machines” were first introduced a fewmonths ago, before I started working here, the supervisortold the workers that whoever had the best e∞ciency ratingeach week would get a paid day o≠. It’s di∞cult to conveyhow threatening this “incentive” was to the workers’ cultureof solidarity. In the vines, everyone moves at more or lessthe same pace (except me—I bust my clumsy, privilegedass and can rarely keep up at the best of times). The fasterworkers slow down to help the slower workers with theirrows, and everyone emerges almost simultaneously, withtheir crates full of tomatoes. It’s “even keel” like this onevery farm I’ve visited, whatever the task, and it makes alot of sense: in this strange land where few people understandthe boss’s instructions, and where anyone can be (andoccasionally is) sent back to Mexico, the last thing peoplewant to do is to draw unnecessary attention to themselvesby standing out as faster or slower than the rest.But for a short while under the new palm pilot regime,the protective anonymity of moving at even keel wasdestroyed, and workers ran themselves ragged to improvetheir percentage, or (more commonly) began to resentthose who were making the rest look bad by chasing unrealisticscores. Finally, everyone got together and refused touse the palm pilots at all. An uneasy truce reigned for a fewdays, until management retaliated by sending six suspectedleaders back to Mexico and revoking the prize for the fastestworker. Similarly, at another greenhouse nearby, theworkers went on strike when the palm pilots were introduced,and 23 workers were sent home to Mexico. In bothcases, the workers who were sent home were replaced withcontract workers from Jamaica—a blatant (and e≠ective)divide-and-conquer tactic. And in both cases, the remainingworkers caved in and began to use the palm pilots again.Curiously, though, the six Jamaican workers who nowwork here were never given palm pilots. When I ask myfriend Christopher why not, he tells me bluntly that it’s“because they know we would smash them.” Maybe so. It’s abloody shame the Mexicans didn’t do that.The palm pilots are so e≠ective that we rarely see (andalmost never hear from) the English-speaking white folks incharge. Human supervision becomes almost irrelevant. Thecontrol is complete, seamless, and practically invisible. A regimelike this is a corporate Human Resource department’sdream. It’s Jeremy Bentham’s panopticon, gone digital. Andsooner or later, I swear on my aqua pack, it’s coming to aworkplace near you.Page 30 : Testimonials : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006

The Only Guero in the GreenhouseConsiders His Career OptionsI am the only guero (whitey) in the entire greenhouse. Ispeak Spanish with the Mexicans, English with the Jamaicans,and French with a Vietnamese man in his seventieseveryone calls tio (“uncle”). Tio was once, long ago, ano∞cer in the French colonial army. He spent five years in aViet Cong prison. Every morning he and I greet each otherthe same way: we say bonjour, I ask him comment ça va, monsieur?,and he invariably replies, with a toothless grin, ça vamieux—it’s getting better.As more and more of the Mexicans finish their eightmonthcontracts and return to their homes for a four-month“vacation” with their families (most will return next yearbecause there is no work for them at home), the greenhousebegins to hire more casual workers to take their places—often“illegals” brought in by contractors who skim a portionof their wages. In the last few weeks, I’ve worked alongsideIndonesians, Somalians, Salvadorans, and a few others whojust stare right through me if I’m thick enough to ask themwhere they are from.It’s very hard for my co-workers to understand why anEnglish-speaking guero would work here at all—everyonehere is either a foreigner or a boss. I’m an anomaly. I’ve frequentlybeen o≠ered sincere and kindly career advice: “Youshould go look for work in the city; I bet you could find agood factory job there,” or “Come to Jamaica—it’s beautiful,and you could get a good teaching job there real easy.”Or, when Christopher learns that I’ve been chosen to spraypesticide on the tomatoes (with inadequate protection, ofcourse), he tells me with the same bitter irony he bringsto every situation, “Them no good, man; that’s black man’swork.” And then, I suppose in an e≠ort to console me, headds, “You keep working here for a couple of years, they’llmake you a supervisor.” I’m having a hard time convincingpeople that I never want to be a supervisor. It’s especiallyhard to explain to the illegals what the hell I’m doing here,someone with citizenship, spraying pesticide in a t-shirt anda painters’ mask like the others do.It’s a fair question, really, but a di∞cult one to answer.I’m here, I suppose, to learn something about responsibilityand dignity—because the people around me exemplify themall in ways I’m only beginning to understand.Talking BabelIn the kitchen after dinner one night we got to talkingabout languages—a worthy topic, given how many of themare spoken in the greenhouse. Someone asked why peoplespeak so many di≠erent languages, so my friend Guadalupetold us the story of the Tower of Babel: how, onceupon a time, everyone used to speak the same language,but then some, in their arrogance, tried to build a towerto heaven, so God smashed the tower and scattered thepeople across the face of the earth and made their wordsstrange to one another.“And that,” Lupe concluded authoritatively, “is why peoplespeak di≠erent languages.”It occurred to me that the Bible, as usual, had got itbackwards, so I asked my compañeros if they had heardthe one about the Greenhouse of Sylvio. They shook theirheads no, unsure what I would say next. I told them how,once upon a time, there was a very rich man who wanted tobuild a greenhouse as big as the whole world. He broughtworkers from every nation to work on it, and treated themvery badly. He tried to keep them divided with threats andrumors, but the workers started talking and complainingtogether, more and more each day, until one fine day theyall understood each other’s words. Then, with one voice,they smashed the greenhouse to the ground and built a cityof laughing and dancing from its ruins. (Blame the sillyphrase a city of laughing and dancing on my patchy bunkhouseSpanish.)In the silence that greeted my story, the propane burnerson the stove continued to throw their small, focused flames,long after all the tortillas had been heated.“No,” Lupe announced finally, with a grin. “I hadn’theard that one.”A Possible Course of ActionThe selective and temporary importing of cheap labor tothe a±uent North has been accelerating rapidly for years,and this invisible industrial workforce in the so-called “postindustrial”North is increasingly the engine driving wealthaccumulation. Legal mechanisms limit their freedom ofmobility and enforce compliance with threats of dismissaland deportation, while vast amounts of wealth are extractedfrom their labor while they struggle, far from their familiesand communities, against fatigue, depression, loneliness,isolation, discrimination, and worse. At the same time, theiravailability drives down wages for more established andorganized sectors of the working class.I wish I could say that shutting down workplaces likethis one is as easy as a few bouts of direct action under thecover of darkness. Greenhouses, made of thin plastic, arestupidly easy targets for sabotage, and so are the electronicsystems used to run them. But as worthy a target as thesevegetable factories may be, cutting a few holes in a plasticwall or dropping a few palm pilots into rain barrels barelymakes a dint in the company’s bottom line, and won’tchange either the structure of oppression or the economicsystem that has workers from the global South (their localeconomies decimated by neo-liberalism) clamoring forwork in the North. The precarity of their situation, carefullymanufactured at every step along the way, is precisely whatkeeps the system humming.Pardon my cheek for presuming to prescribe a possiblecourse of action, but if we hope to change any of this, thatprecarity (as infuriatingly intangible as it is) must be ourfirst target. If you’ve got a few months to spare, and don’tmind trading in your comfort for a glimpse of the realitymost folks can’t easily escape, here’s a suggestion for whatyou can do.Go where migrant farm workers or factory workers are(hint: they’re everywhere, even if you’ve grown accustomedto not seeing them), and spend a season plantingtobacco, plucking chickens, or harvesting field vegetables.Learn the language. Make friends with your coworkers.For every minute you spend talking, spend atleast ten minutes listening. Think hard about what itmeans to be an ally. Don’t take yourself too seriously;remember that you experience things di≠erently,knowing you can leave at any time. Take note of everytime your privilege smoothes your way for you, ofevery gift you are given. Don’t let your politics be afilter for making sense of your experiences; let yourinteractions with the people around you inform yourpolitics. Share what you learn with friends and familyback home. Sharpen your indignation at the injusticesyou witness, and twist your useless First World guiltinto a vow to live di≠erently. The workers—the oneswho are there because they have no choice—will dothe rest. You’d do well to learn to speak their languageso that when the time comes for them to call on theirallies, you’ll understand what they’re asking of you.Page 32 : Testimonials : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006

The Craziest Walk Ever“Have you heard the news? Those motherfuckers justkilled somebody in Italy!”“It’ll be our turn next in DC. And Genoa is nothingcompared to the heart of the beast. It’s fucking war, andsomebody’s probably gonna die.”Time always gives one a strange sense of perspective onevents. Nothing has fundamentally changed. The enemyis still the same, and so is what I want, which is of courseanarchy. Five years ago we were ready to die. We weren’t reallysure what that meant but I’m pretty sure it was at leasta distant cousin to what embittered young men and womenin Palestine feel. I don’t know. Those who die for the causedon’t come back to tell the tales.Down to the nitty-gritty. It was September 11 th , 2001, andI was hungry, dirty, exhausted, and utterly fucking happy. Iawoke in my dusty sleeping bag on the encrusted (in what, Idared not ask) floor of an intensely strange little basement,beside two of my comrades, who were still asleep. Not onlywas I hungry, but I also had to piss, ideally in some sortof vaguely hygienic container. Next door—although to beexact there was no literal door, only a sort of a metaphysicaldoor where a more corporeal door should have stood—Icould hear the rough grunting, panting, slapping, andmoaning of two people engaging in an extremely vocal actof passionate revolutionary love… and blocking my path tothe bathroom and the kitchen.A Tour of Washington, D.C. on September 11, 2001While the details escape me, and in fact I’m pretty sureI never knew them to begin with, I had somehow ended upin this apartment preparing for total war against capital andthe state. It was a pretty big apartment, enough to fit abouta dozen scouts for the upcoming anti-IMF protests. Our jobwas simple—we were making propaganda for everyone whowas showing up: posters, leaflets, wheatpasting material,and the inevitable badly photocopied and confusing map ofdowntown D.C. We hoped to improve that last one.So, I was utterly fucking happy. Often life is a hard thing,full of di∞cult decisions, personal tragedies, and the drearyweariness of a meaningless job. In more cheery cases therewas no job, and the task was figuring out where the nearestdumpster with some vegetables was and a place to putmy sleeping bag that wouldn’t involve getting too wet. Yethere I was, with both of those problems solved. The basementapartment, o≠ered to us through shadowy means bya friend of a friend of a friend, was the perfect hideout. Itwas within spitting distance of the White House and most ofdowntown, and like all good hideouts had a distinct lack ofwindows—it was camouflaged by anonymity in a dehumanizingtenement block. The food problem was solved by thecornucopia of dumpsters in the nearby suburbs, where a certainorganic food chain was literally overflowing with breadproducts and vegetables that were barely beginning theprocess of decomposition—and large amounts of decidedlyvegan-unfriendly sugary treats. Dumpster crack, we called it.And I was addicted.I began engaging in all sorts of lewd fantasies about myupcoming breakfast. Orange juice and bagels—with thoselittle onion bits that I normally detest—would be perfect.Some sugary smashed pastries would be perfect. I could imaginebathing in orange juice and building castles of bagels.The noises next door finally came to a dramatic conclusion.Despite their temporary nonviolent blockade of my routeto the kitchen, I was so overwhelmingly filled with feelingsof good will for my fellow woman and man (except copsand politicians, fuck those bastards!), including the twolovebirds next door, that I could not even hold my delayedbreakfast against them.The woman in particular impressed me. I had previouslywritten her o≠ as a sort of well-meaning yet utterly cluelessreformist who had been giving workshops on nonviolence afew months ago, yet she seemed to have transformed overnightinto a bloodthirsty revolutionary with a plethora ofcreative—and decidedly not non-violent—ideas about howwe could defend ourselves against the inevitable clash withthe D.C. police. Love and revolution were in the air, and Itiptoed to the kitchen.I am not normally a morning person. That day, I was sobrimming with happiness that I felt positively empowered.After all, when in life is the mission so simple? Peoplewere coming to try to shut down the center of neo-liberaldepravity that is the IMF, and we had to make sure they allhad maps to get to wherever they needed to get to. Thanksto my magical Kinko’s free copy card, which a friend hadmanufactured by drilling a little hole into it, and the benignnegligence—or was it complicity?—of Kinko’s employees,my job was pretty easy. My simple life was absolutelyoverflowing with meaning—but I needed help. After all,maybe fifty thousand people were going to show up to thisprotest, and that was more photocopies than I could makesingle-handedly. In the kitchen I concocted a fantasy in a fitof anarchist evangelism: I would go to the Starbucks onlya block away, sit down next to the first pasty, tired, middleagedbureaucrat of the Global Capitalist Death Machine Icould find and say, “Look, buddy. I know you hate your job,waking up nine-to-five and being a minor accomplice to allsorts of nastiness. Secretly, you realize your life is meaningless.Drop that cappuccino right now, ’cause I got meaningto spare. Forget this whole capitalist job deathtrap and joinme in Kinko’s.”My reverie was interrupted by the dull roar of the trashcompactor. Fuck, and no one had taken out the trash! Igrabbed the black trash bag and stumbled out the door intothe bright sunlit morning. I waited by the trashcan, andwithin a few minutes the smiling trash collector, wearing anorange jumper, took the trash o≠ my hands. He leaned over,as if to tell me a secret:“You heard, then? They just drove an airplane into theWorld Trade Center!”“No shit! Well, you know, things are crazy nowadays.”I just smiled and waved goodbye to the trashman. Man,the things people say in the morning. It was sort of interestinghow he, the legitimate morning trashman, had hiscounterpart in me, the illegitimate midnight trashman. Ourjobs had the same slogan: Get the Trash. I only hoped thatI had lightened his load by removing enough of the trashfrom circulation to make up for the trash that I had justgiven him. Anyways, I was never one to let a good breakfastor even meaningful anticapitalist activity get in the way ofgoing back to sleep in the morning. So, I tiptoed past thepost-coital embrace of my pals, and slithered back into mysleeping bag.“Get up, man! You gotta run upstairs!”Just as I was about to get back to bed, the crazy toothlesslandlord peers in and wakes me up, putting me in adistinctly bad mood. I feign grogginess, and he all but dragsme out of my sleeping bag.“They just blew up the World Trade Center! There’sbombs going o≠!”To think that I had doubted the trashman. There wentmy peaceful morning. Not realizing the full impact of theseevents, I grabbed another crusty bagel and shambled upstairswith my comrades to our landlord’s personal enclave,where, surrounded by cigarette butts and porn magazines,he had a small TV perched strategically on the file cabinetacross from his desk. Yes, the trashman was right. On thescreen there appeared to be some sort of James Bond movieplaying. Or perhaps War of the Worlds. Except that the newsreporter seemed to be actually panicking, uncertain howto comprehend, much less provide an advertising-friendlylight chatter about a thousand people being incinerated.The building was on fire, and there was definitely some sortof gaping hole in the World Trade Center. Then I heard ashriek from the news reporter. The tower just crumbled inplace, like a demolition. Except that it was full of people,many of whom had been running the financial apparatus ofglobal capitalism, pushing the buttons that calculated thenumbers written in the blood of the poor.Emphasis on the past tense.I sat transfixed by the spectacle on the television. Therewere undoubtedly any number of janitors and cooks andwindow washers in there, even if they were in the minority.No, this was not good. I wasn’t horrified, really, not sad, notscared, not surprised; this was just not something that I hadexpected to happen this morning. My brain was racing, yetsomehow a useful analysis of the destruction of a sizeableportion of New York City evaded me. The landlord, stillin his boxers, just stood there slack-jawed. Behind me, thetwo lovebirds started cheering, including the person I hadmet just a few months earlier giving a nonviolence training.How times change!“Well, I sure don’t think that was us. I mean, no one toldme about that. That was someone who was really fuckingangry. Uh, Palestinians?”My logic is less than razor sharp in the morning. My goodfriend Colin had a serious and grave look upon his face.“Those kids are not thinking clearly,” he said, rollinghis eyes in the lovebirds’ direction. “We’ve got to figure outwhat to do, and quick. This definitely changes our plans.”Page 34 : Testimonials : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Testimonials : Page 35

Before Colin could get another word in, a report cameacross the screen that the Pentagon had been hit with anairplane. There was a quick cut to the Pentagon, which nowfeatured a burning hole in its side.More cheers erupted.“Jesus Christ. That’s not too far away. I mean I can’t saythey didn’t have it coming. The Pentagon’s full of fuckingmurderers. But this is getting a little too close for comfort.”Suddenly my razor-sharp deductive powers put ittogether that there might be even more planes in the skythat could be crashing into other parts of the U.S. powercomplex. It seemed quite logical that another plane wasgoing to crash into the White House, from which so muchsheer horror was perpetuated throughout the world. Wewere literally a few blocks from the White House. Fuck,the plane could miss and hit us! What about the debris? Iwasn’t exactly sure what happened when a plane crashedinto a city, but it seemed likely to hold ramifications foreveryone nearby. All of downtown D.C. was more or lessworthy of being destroyed in the eyes of many people onthe planet, and we were unlucky enough to be in the middleof downtown. I wished I could put a black flag on the roofso whoever the fuck was behind this would know we wereanarchists trying to fight capitalism and the state, who hadno great love for the U.S. government—so please don’t killus, thank you very much!The television at this point was stuck on what appearedto be an infinite loop of the planes ramming into the WorldTrade Center, over and over and over again. Just in case wehad missed it. The news reporters were babbling and stammering.They mentioned that the death counts could be fivethousand, ten thousand, fifty thousand. Another airplanehad apparently been shot down somewhere near Pittsburgh.Fuck, we had friends in Pittsburgh. Then they mentionedthat there was something like thirty more planes flyingaround unaccounted for somewhere.“We’ve gotta get out of here.”“Look, my family has some land out of state. We can gothere and just lay low,” suggested the former nonviolencetrainer.“And I have a small car, we can fit everyone inside.”someone else chirped up. The landlord was glued to thescreen, entranced by the images of endlessly repeatingexplosions. He seemed oblivious to our conversation.“Fuck, but we have to drive by the White House—isthere a way out of the city from here without going near itor the Pentagon? Who’s got a fucking map of D.C.?”Well, we had several thousand of them, albeit as photocopieswith housing locations for out-of-town activists onthem. Oh yeah, and these maps also listed major corporateand government centers with little notes about theirheinous deeds and connections to corporate globalization.There was going to be a clampdown.“We gotta burn the maps.” Colin read my mind.The news now had footage of how the collapse of theWorld Trade Center appeared from the streets of New York.There were people covered in grey dust, screaming, runningdown the street away from clouds of debris bellowing fromthe collapse. People were dying somewhere in those clouds,and there was a lot of screaming on the television. Then, onthe blue scrollbar, it was announced that there were bombsgoing o≠ outside the State Department.“Wait a sec, if we try to drive out of here, what if a bombgoes o≠ near our car?”“There are going to be thousands and thousands ofpeople all trying to get out of D.C.—it’s gonna be a completeclusterfuck. What if they target that?”“Now we know how the Palestinians feel every day,” saidColin. It was probably the most sensible moment of theentire conversation.After the hubbub had settled down, we decided it wouldbe best to stay put for the time being. One of us went downstairsto burn everything a police o∞cer could hold againstus. It was unclear what the future held, but martial lawdefinitely seemed a none-too-remote possibility.Lacking anything better to do, we all sat around andwatched television. The news reporters and televisioncommentators had gained some sense of composure by thistime, and had begun pointing fingers.“The government suspects Middle Eastern terrorist OsamaBin Laden, whose terrorist group previously attemptedto blow up the World Trade Center.”It sort of surprised me that there was no commentary byour esteemed leader George W. Bush, or really anyone at allin a position of power. They must have all been hiding beneaththeir desks. The television just kept looping the segmentof the World Trade Center falling, over and over again.We started flipping channels, and the same picture was onalmost every channel. Death tolls varied widely, but seemedto be in the thousands at least. There were more reports ofthe car bombs going o≠ outside the State Department andmaybe elsewhere in D.C. The news occasionally flashed anaerial picture of the Pentagon pierced with a burning hole.Apparently the corporate media had already realized thateven the American public had less sympathy with the Pentagonthan with the World Trade Center.“We have to do something other than just sit here.” Colingrowled.“How many chances do you get in your life to see thePentagon on fire?” I asked.“Let’s walk to the Pentagon,” said Colin, always a fan ofwalking.Not a bad idea. How many chances do you get to see thePentagon on fire? I had always sort of imagined triumphantanarchists storming the Pentagon, driving out the murderousnumber-crunchers and paper-pushers. Probably wewould light things on fire—I mean, how else to dispose ofa place that had caused so many a≠ronts to human dignity?Here we were and someone else had set the Pentagon onfire. I wished that whoever had been behind the attackshad at least noticed that we had a rather important—dareI say penultimate, as the momentum for it seemed to beincreasing at an exponential rate in the wake of successesin Seattle and Quebec—protest coming up in mid-October.If they could have only waited a few weeks, we might haveoverthrown the U.S. government in downtown D.C. itself.Alas, the U.S. anti-globalization movement was apparentlynot on the radar of whoever had done this.“Yeah, I’ll go with you.”Why not? After all, there was nothing we could do toa≠ect the situation by lurking about in the basement, andgiven the number of sketchy characters that had been hangingaround, I would not have been terribly surprised if thepolice knew it was there. This would be a great excuse toclamp down on us anarchists. If they knew that a quorumof us could be found a few blocks from the White House wewould be up shit creek—our little hideout was not nearlyas safe as my companions seemed to think. Or maybe I wasjust being paranoid. Either way, a walk outside could onlyhelp. So Colin and I got our things together, and headed outinto the light of day.It was still pretty early, and the sun was shining. Thestreets around our block were strangely eerie and silent.I guessed that everyone was inside glued to their televisions,as paralyzed as we had been just moments earlier. Wewalked around the corner, and within minutes approacheddowntown D.C. Total panic was in full swing. All sorts ofwhite men in suits, no longer drinking their lattes as usualas they calmly ordered the full-scale rape of our planet,were trying desperately to get the fuck out of their buildings.It was extremely bizarre watching out-of-shape capitaliststrying to hoof it down the sterile streets, stumbling andpanting and heaving. Secretaries and the occasional womancommissar were now hamstrung by their skirts and highheels, unable to break into the full panicking run that someof their male colleagues and females with more sensiblefootwear had managed to attain.We walked by the White House, and I half expected it toburst into flames before my eyes. Instead I got to witnessthe evacuation of the White House cooking sta≠. I saw achef with a huge Swedish Chef hat perched precariouslyupon his head break into full gallop, presumably leavingthe Little Boy Prince of the World to finish cooking hisown steaks and foie gras. The whole thing didn’t look liketragedy, it looked liked absurdist comedy. I half expectedBush to come running out in his underwear clutchinghundred dollar bills in his hands. Whatever security forceswere supposed to be present were clearly also busy gettingthe fuck out of there and were not in any way attempting tomaintain law and order. It struck me that now would also bethe perfect time to rob a bank.We passed through downtown and kept walking. Wekept running into people panicking, and yet in other partsof D.C. life was going on as normal. On blocks containinggovernment buildings, it was like an outtake from theSoon-To-Be-Upcoming Revolution with employees runningdesperately down the streets. In the poorer neighborhoods,however, it seemed like life was more or less continuing asusual, although most businesses were shut as everyone washome watching events unfold on television. Overall, it wasPage 36 : Testimonials : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Testimonials : Page 37

a fine autumn day, and the pure strangeness of the situationseemed to dispel some of the inhuman gloom that lays uponWashington, D.C.We headed south until we finally arrived at the end ofthe road. On the other side of the river lay the Crystal City,the complex of glass-encased high-rise apartment buildingsand fancy hotels that served the military bureaucracy of thePentagon. On the other side, I could see columns of smokerising up from the Pentagon. Reaching in my pocket, Idiscovered an old instant camera. I took it out and snatcheda picture of the Pentagon on fire. I thought to myself, damn,this really is a once in a life-time event. Well, hopefullytwice in a lifetime. I asked Colin if he wouldn’t mind takingour picture together in front of the burning Pentagon. So,we snapped a quick picture. No one saw us. I later lost thecamera before developing the film, which is probably forthe best.As we approached the dreadful hulk of the Pentagon,full scale insanity became apparent around us. There wasabsolutely no order here. From what appeared to be one ofthe main doors to the building, Pentagon o∞cials pouredout in a mad rush, grasping their suitcases with looks ofshock and awe upon their faces. At the center from whichthe world’s most fearsome military was directed, no onehad any control. Smoke continued to billow ominouslyfrom the wreckage; the building was clearly burning up,and most employees appeared to have no fucking clue whatwas going on and were basically pissing their pants. It wassort of ironic seeing terror in the eyes of the functionariesof an establishment that had inflicted so much terror uponso many people throughout the world for so long. Were theyreally surprised that their misdeeds had come back to hauntthem? Oh, how the mighty had fallen.We watched the madness from afar at first, then creptcloser. There weren’t even any cops in front of the entranceto the Pentagon, no barrier between us and the burningbuilding. We, two avowed anarchists, were only a few yardsfrom the Pentagon, an institution we had both committedour lives to destroying. This institution was on fire, and allof the people who worked there were running away fromit. A brilliant thought came upon us. This was our once-ina-lifetimechance. We could run into the Pentagon. Whoknows what we could find? We could probably destroy computers,steal files, wreak all sorts of havoc. With no policepresence, we might even be able to get away. A quick look atColin and it was clear he was thinking the same thing. So, Ileaned over to his ear and whispered to him.“Should we do it?”“I’m not sure. It might be the only chance we ever get.”We stood there mulling over the prospect. We took a fewdeep breaths, taking in the destruction around us. Runninginto the Pentagon to do something—anything—did seemtempting, especially as one employee ran out with a handfulof papers and a laptop. It took all I had not to turn aroundand punch him in the face. These fucking murderers wereactually surprised that they were getting a taste of their ownmedicine! By this time the police had finally arrived andstarted trying to cordon o≠ the Pentagon. Our chance wasgone. It occurred to me that we were in a precarious position,since we appeared to be the only people present whowere not running away.“We don’t have the slightest excuse to be here. I mean,fuck, we don’t even have an excuse to be in D.C.”We really didn’t. What would the police do if they ID’dus? We were both your proverbial out-of-town agitatorswith arrest records at various anti-government events.Wasn’t it a bit mysterious that we just happened to be hangingaround the Pentagon at the very moment it burst intoflames? If they put us in the back of a car would anyone eversee us again? This moment would be a ripe time to pick o≠two smelly weird-looking guys with Charles Manson beardscreeping around the Pentagon while it was on fire.“Fuck, we should get out of here. They’re gonna shut thiswhole fucking area down.”That was observant—the police, who had been conspicuousin their absence for the entire duration of the madnessaround the Pentagon, had finally arrived. They seemeddazed and confused, but I expected they were going to startasking questions any minute, and I sure didn’t want myname associated with any of this—much less my camerawith the picture of me in front of the burning building!Fuck! We walked coolly away, until we were just out of sight.What if we were stopped on down the road? Looking aroundto make sure no one could see us, we began a mad sprint toget as fucking far away from the Pentagon as we could.The way back was not nearly as easy as the way there.Like a beast that was slowly awakening from being dealt anear-lethal blow while asleep, the machinery of the statebegan kicking into action, confused and angry. The buzz ofpolice sirens could be heard in the distance. We could seethe road we had walked there in the distance, too, and itwas swarming with police.There was an entrance to the interstate nearby, so weran up onto it as quickly as we could. What followed wasstraight out of a post-apocalyptic zombie movie: not a soulwas on the highway, and we walked straight down themiddle of I-95 for what seemed to be an eternity withouta car in sight. In the distance smoke was rising, bodieswere burning, police sirens were wailing, but we had foundthe straight and narrow road the fuck out of Dodge. Thehighways crossed over each other like twisting snakes, andagain, we heard the sirens howling behind us. Did they seeus? Were they coming for us? Were they busy with somethingelse? Maybe they were closing the highway down! Wescrambled o≠ the road into the traditional hiding spot ofrobbers, outlaws, and anarchists: bushes. We waited for thecoast to clear, hearts beating out of our chests and GodspeedYou Black Emperor! blasting in our heads. When thesirens passed, we ran out of the bushes and straight up anembankment. At the top of the grassy embankment was afence, which we leapt over in desperation, only to end up inArlington cemetery! Judas Fucking Priest!We ran, through the countless rows of white crossesstanding mute in the autumn sun. We ran through the flagsand the fields, with the lamentations of legions of restlessghosts blowing in the wind beneath our feet. We ran until wecame to a hill, and we climbed the hill. We climbed the hill,and there, sitting at the top, were two men. Their clotheswere even more tattered than our own. Their bodies wereeven filthier than our own. Their beards were even moreMansonesque than our own. They were swilling malt liquorfrom a forty-ounce bottle in a brown paper bag. They werehomebums, and they were watching the Pentagon burn.“Sit down, brother,” one of them suggested. The otherextended his arm, his meaty fist clutching the forty, wordlesslyo≠ering me a swig from it.I shook my head. “Thanks, man, but we’re lost. How infuck do we get out of here?”The first homebum gave us surprisingly lucid directionsout of the cemetery, and we turned to leave. At the lastmoment he looked me dead in the eye and intoned, “But becareful. There’s guns, guns, GUNS IN THE GRAVEYARD!”With this last piece of disquieting information ringing inmy ears, we fled back down the hill. The homebum—whohad filled a role in my afternoon comparable to that playedby the one-eyed oracle in ancient Greek tragedy—provedmore or less accurate in his assessment of the local geography.We crawled through more bushes, jumped over morefences, and somehow ended up in the idyllic backyard of asuburban home.At least now we just appeared to be two maniacs whowere getting ready to break into a house, as opposed totwo maniacs at the scene of a national catastrophe surroundedby police. We crept around the yard to the roadand beheld a great crowd standing at the top of an embankmentoverlooking the highway. Not a soul looked at us oreven seemed to notice us. Instead, with the air of a macabreneighborhood barbeque, everyone from small children tograndmothers was staring into the distance, watching thePentagon burn. It seemed almost festive; people did notappear upset—perhaps surprised, if anything—and mostseemed happier than your average employees at work. Itwas, after all, a pleasant autumn day. There seemed to bea spirit of racial harmony that contrasted sharply with theusual terrorizing racism of Washington, D.C. Black, Latino,Anglo-Saxon—it didn’t matter, everyone was in their frontyards watching the Pentagon burn. In almost dead silence,with a bit of small-talk here and there. After a moment, webid adieu to the assembled neighbors and continued downthe street.We were totally disoriented at this point, with littleidea where we were or how to get home. It was gettinglater in the evening, and I was still feeling a little paranoid.It seemed that if we ran around the streets of Arlington,VA too much longer while full-scale chaos was in motion,we were almost guaranteed some trouble. While I usuallyPage 38 : Testimonials : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Testimonials : Page 39

welcome a tussle with the cops, today was not going to be agood day for that sort of thing. So, what to do?Cheap Chinese! There are few better things to eat after apleasant walk to watch the Pentagon burn than cheap Chinesefood. Usually vegetarian, often vegan, and sometimeseven without MSG, we also suspected that the restaurantso≠ering this fare might be ideal for laying low. And aroundthe corner was a classic Chinese restaurant in one of therundown strip malls that litter America, and the Chinesejoint was—miracle of miracles—still open for businessthis September the 11th. I emptied my pockets, countedthe quarters and nickels, and managed to scrape togetherenough for some vegetables and rice. The lone employeeseemed to be happy some customers had appeared, anddidn’t even appear to find us strange. An irrepressible fanof Chinese hot mustard, I covered my portion in the yellowtangy substance and turned around to watch the TV.It seemed as if nothing had changed from this morning.Our dear President George W. Bush was still nowhereto be seen. Instead, the footage of the falling towers (withshots of the Pentagon infrequently intermixed) was beingplayed over and over again as if with the intention of inducinghypnosis. The talking heads of the media seemed to besomewhat more in control of themselves than earlier, andwere now repeating “Middle Eastern terrorists” and “BinLaden” over and over again, although there seemed to be noconcrete evidence yet.I was relieved that they were not mentioning the word“anarchists,” as this gave us a little time. However, it waspretty clear over noodles and fortune cookies that thiswould be the perfect excuse for a witch hunt against us andanyone else the government considered a threat. Colin andI sat, mostly in stony silence, trying to figure out the implicationsof this day for the movement—and how the hell wewere going to get home.“We should eat slowly. Look, we’re pretty safe here. Noone knows we’re here. We can just sit here and eat until itgets dark and we can get home.”“Fuck, that’s going to be a while yet.”“Well, better safe than sorry.”When night finally began to fall, we bid a fond adieu toour host at the Chinese joint and proceeded down the road.We asked the few pedestrians we encountered for directions,and eventually found our way home through endlessalleys and bridges and back streets. When we arrived at ourlittle hideout, we looked around to make sure we weren’tbeing followed, then employed various comical anti-surveillancetechniques that mostly involved walking in circles,before finally stepping inside. Apparently the landlord hadgone back into his porn- and cigar-laden cocoon, and ourfriends were inside chomping at the bit as they plannedtheir getaway.Colin and I argued that we had to compose some sort ofanarchist response, and quick. There was only going to bea short window of time between September 11th and theinevitable government clampdown. If we could manageto pull together a quick response, we could at least get ourviews out there. People were confused and terrified, easilymanipulated by the heartless mindfuckers who were surelygoing to launch some sort of war in the not-so-distantfuture. Right at that moment, however, the US power structurewas utterly paralyzed. If we had our act together, wecould do something inspiring and historic then and therebefore the government even had time to respond with itswitch hunts and wars.There were a host of practical questions to discuss:should we carry on with the IMF protests, should we fleeunderground before the roundups began, should we go tothe public with our own answers about why some peoplehad hated the US government and corporations enough toram a plane into their headquarters? There was so much todo, and so little time.“When those bastards declare war, we gotta march in thestreets of Washington, IMF or not, just to show people everywherethat we’re against the fucking U.S. government, too.”“Then we really gotta get the fuck out of dodge.”“Man, that was the craziest fucking walk I’ve ever taken.”Five years ago we were ready to die. Or more precisely,to be murdered in cold blood by the state, as had happenedto Carlo Giuliani in Genoa. That was a price worth payingfor our dreams of a more compassionate world. We thought,not entirely without reason, that they were going to shootat us, and we were headed to the front lines anyway, to laydown our lives if it came to that. And then history outpacedus—not, I fear, for the last time—and our thunder wasstolen by people with drastically less concern for human lifethan ourselves.Is the world a better place? Are we any closer to the revolutionarysituation we dream of as a result of the decisionswe have made or failed to make? And at whose feet can belain responsibility for this sorry state of a≠airs, and for allthe bloodshed and sorrow that took place that day and thedays before it and the days after? Ours, theirs, the corporations’,the governments’? Five years ago we were ready todie. For better or for worse, there is no doubt that the yearsto come will provide us with many more opportunities toask ourselves if that is still the case.Gentle reader, the rest is up to you.PostscriptShortly after September 11, 2001, a cell of the CrimethInc.Ex-Workers’ Collective produced a text entitled “Afterthe Fall” in an attempt to analyze the causes and ramificationsof the events of that morning. It can still be found inthe “Miscellaneous” section of the reading library at www.crimethinc.com. Those days—and these—demanded muchmore than words in a newspaper or on a computer screen,but we still stand by this piece of writing as possibly the mostclearheaded and prescient statement to come out of theanarchist milieu at that time. The future is still unwritten.MATCH-STRIKERS:a personal storyHalfway through the tour, we thought we knew what we weredealing with. The singer was battling pneumonia and had beenunable to make a sound for two weeks, the drummer was receivingdeath threats by email from six countries, the guitarist, unable tolay his hands on a razor, had resorted to scraping his head with thepocket knife he’d inherited from his grandfather, and the roadies,along with the bass player, had been drunk for a month and a halfstraight. As for myself, out of respect for the mighty forces at work,I had refused to bathe for forty days and nights, and now I wasstretching it on towards fifty. We looked like a gang the governmentcould’ve used to justify blowing up an elementary school in Bangladesh.When we got there, the twelve of us, the poor guy who wassupposed to put us up only had an apartment of about thirty squaremeters, and we occupied it like Christiania in ’71.Page 40 : Testimonials : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Testimonials : Page 41

Such was the state of a≠airs upon my arriving in Stockholmfor the first time. The kid who let us crash at his placewas incredibly generous. We had been forced to cancelalmost two weeks of shows and he allowed us the use of hisflat in the meantime. It was November. Conditions wereripe for pneumonia, or worse. The cold driving rain andperpetual darkness kept us, for the most part, inside. Wewere constantly on the edge of calling the whole thing o≠.Beaten back by the pack ice, like polar explorers. Peoplewere calling home nightly without calling cards, checkingout the possibilities of new housing arrangements and thecosts of changing flights; never mind that we had showsbooked across Europe all the way to New Years. The poorsinger, in his madness, had taken to staring at himself inthe mirror for several hours a day opening and closing hismouth, trying to push air through his acrid, broken vocalcords. After a week and a half of this behavior, I approachedhim.“Can I take a shit in here?” I asked.“Did you hear that?” he looked at me with feral eyes, noteven whispering, barely breathing the words.“Hear what?”“I made a noise.”“Oh,” I thought, “Okay.”“I made a low note,” he said, and smiled. “I’ve been inhere working on it for a little while.” His eyes sung a thousandverses. When he wanted to say something, he wouldlean in really close to your ear, breathing and moving hismouth. Then he would step a few feet back and wave hishands wildly for emphasis.“Well,” I said, “that’s one small step for [name of individual],one giant leap for [band in question].”“No, for mankind!” he breathed and gestured excitedly.“You know, we’re in a small bathroom near the end ofthe world…” I said. Back then, Stockholm really was quiteclose to the end of the world—that is to say, near Russia.“Exactly!” he breathed, “give me my voice back and I canmove mountains!” and marched out into the hallway, penand notebook in hand, practically vibrating.I sat down, thinking, “These are the good times. Thetimes when mountains move within people and one mightwalk away a completely di≠erent person.”He had spent the previous forty-eight hours comingto terms with the permanent loss of his voice. I was sowrapped up in my own world, I spent most of my time onthe living room floor, with my head under a pillow, listeningthrough headphones to recordings of Kerouac readings. Likenewborns, we sucked whatever teats were o≠ered us.Beneath this mangled exterior was a pure beating heart,pumping raw, thirsty blood. We were out after the newworld, and having taken a beating, were now willing to endureanything to get a closer look. We knew it was there. Wewould’ve set ourselves on fire if we’d thought it would getus a step closer to our goals. Living then was like standingin the center of a mob, pushing forward. Pushing the peoplein front of you, able only to see the small sliver of groundat your feet, and if you were lucky the person behind you“Having cleared the hurdle of problem definition,we were in flight over solution. Some of us stumbledand fell; I may be one of those who did. Whetheranyone is ever destined to land is another thing; butthat’s not what’s important, is it? There’s a joy anda glory in the take o≠, I think, and a joy and a gloryin the fall too. The simple fact that our arcs exist isenough to keep us facing forward, or at least it shouldbe. You never know what will catch, but you can damnwell keep your tinderbox tidy and keep trying.”–the physicist Richard Feynman in a letter to ArlineGreenbaum, the love of his life, three years beforebeginning work on the Manhattan Projectwould have her hands on your back and you’d be pushingtogether. And lo, if there were five or six people around youpushing, you could feel like you were getting somewhere,like the mob was moving. All the while you coveted the sacreddream of the mob, the stone-faced mob, breaking intoan all-out run across a grassy plain like bu≠alo, or throughcity streets like waters through a sluice. Beyond that, no onecould imagine anything.The kid said—the kid we were staying with, I mean,Sven we’ll call him—Sven said to me one night, “Let meknow if you get bored and I’ll drum up some excitement.”“Okay,” I replied, “I’m bored.”Sven scratched his head. It seemed for a minute like hewasn’t really prepared for an immediate response.Fifteen minutes later I was chasing him down a longdamp wooden staircase somewhere in Stockholm. “We’regoing to go down into the hole when we get to the bottomof the stairs,” he had said, and we were o≠.We were practically running down, but it was a longway. I looked around at the ordinary Stockholm night.Street lights, damp pavement reflecting, passers-by, standers-around,all quite normal. We neared the bottom of thestairs; I didn’t see any holes. “I have no idea where this manis taking me,” I said to myself, “I have no idea what is goingto happen next!” and the notion thrilled me. Sven turneda quick corner after the last step and dashed into the wetbushes; I followed. We kept low and moved quick, dashedalong onto a rooftop; I slipped and fell and covered myselfin slick mud. The kid behind me helped me up. Then wecame to the hole: the rabbit hole.We were putting our backs into it. And as we labored, ifa labor it can be called, we were making friends. As anyonewho has ever truly invested themselves in a project knows,the connections you make in these acts are of some of thestrongest and most durable stu≠. Emboldened and in motion,we can ask things of each other and share things witheach other that would normally, in the kind of relationshipsyou can get away with under the system’s watchful eye, bestopped at the gate. Daring and intimacy are confiscatedat the security checkpoint before you can even enter themarketplace where our personal relationships are negotiated.But we had broken through and were out now, andthe echoes of our old socialization sounded to us like thecroakings of dinosaurs. We were slitting connections asquickly as we were making them, and whole foundations forthe choices of our lives were evolving. We were charging,wielding a newfound power and control over our decisionsand over our lives that somehow seemed to encompass theentire world. Our words and gestures were laced with anauthentic passion that in some ways resembled a fatalism.Do not embrace us lightly; we will be with you forever. But forgodsakes embrace us!And thankfully, there were some who did. So I wasnever alone; through all the treacherous twists and turns ofthe road, I was never without a hand to hold. And thoughno one single person could have followed me the wholeway—indeed I shed the most meaningful relationshipsof my life like they were sacks of sand—there was alwayssomeone there willing to hold me for a time. And if I try totrace the trajectory of my life, the boldest strokes across thegrid go back to those tremulous days with those maniacsin those bread boxes of apartments, across Europe, acrossAmerica. More importantly, that epoch, the crazy time wehad in Stockholm, became the context for choices that trulytook me o≠ the map and one step closer to the world wecraved, however undefined it remained… and the thirst inmy blood was quenched, for the time being.Sven switched on his headlamp and went under first.The “hole” turned out to be a gap between the soft wetground and the roof of a small underground chasm. I slidmyself between them and my feet dangled; I jumped andlanded square a foot or so below. It was dark and dirty;there was various and sundry trash around, old spray-paintcans and soda bottles. We peered out into the darkness likelittle gollums. For a moment I thought I was surrounded bystalactites and stalagmites, until I clicked on the flashlightsomeone in the band had loaned me and saw that I wasstanding in a thin chamber between a cinderblock buildingand the rocky cli≠ that had been bombed to make way for it.The gap above was covered by a tin roof, but kids had beendown there mining the place. It looked almost lived-in.We followed the chamber, descending. I felt very muchlike Alice. We followed a sort of path through holes andcracks, boulders and crevasses. The shadows were deepenough to contain god-knows-what. I felt everything withmy hands and feet, not really believing my eyes. We passedwalls of concrete, the only straight lines to be found, coveredtop to bottom with weird street-art posters. Now andthen a strange howling echoed softly through the cave, likethe death rattle of some forgotten Babylon. After a few minutesof twists and turns, we came to a ladder. When I pokedmy head through the hole at the top of the ladder, I saw theothers standing on the first flat surface we had encountered.Two years after my first visit, I returned to Stockholm. Ihad kept in touch with the kid with the apartment and followedhis story through letters. I was tired of traveling withbands. I wanted to get out into the space beyond tourism,beyond the van, beyond the shows and the scene. Havingsensed the infinity out there, I wanted to cast myself intoit and find a spinning raw abandon that would take me outof the world. By then Sven had participated in starting arevolutionary collective which had as its specific goal to ripout the dead heart of the world and electrify it. When heinvited me up to participate, I set a course for Stockholm.Through a contact at a major airline, I obtained for myself acompanion-traveler ticket good for a return trip to Amsterdam.I would hitch in three legs to Stockholm, by way ofHamburg and Copenhagen. I would clear my inner vision,open my third eye, I would use whatever postures available,I would whirl. And when in the end I came face to face withmy reflection in the ice wall, I would dive into it and betransformed. Whatever you are out there, bring it on.We walked a few hundred feet into a space where thecave opened up and there were wall paintings. Beautiful.There was an old table with small candles. Sven lit themand sat down. He told us the story of an artist who organizeda show down there and got a hundred people into thatcave. He told us it was a “real art gallery.” I had the sensationof being buried under a million pounds of rock andsoil, at the center of a great mountain—but we were only inthe caves surrounding the subway in Stockholm, Sweden.We sat for a while and listened to the trains.Sven guided us around a little. We climbed up to aplatform from which we could watch the trains zoom belowus. We heard the echo of voices; we heard feet shifting onthe platform, people waiting for their trains, discussing andjoking amongst themselves. We were in the very meat of thecity, watching the black blood of civilization course throughits dirty veins. We smelled the drugs it ingested. We felt thetremors of its secret longings. Then we crawled out througha service duct into the bright backstage of the station. Wewalked quickly through the gate and were out again on thepavement. Then boom, the e≠ect hit me. We sprinted outthrough the street. There was a light drizzle. It was wonderlandat last.So I quit my job, which seems to be how all such journeysas these begin. I was working nightshift at a hotel,carrying bags and bringing people toothbrushes at two inthe morning. Thankless. The manager and I parted on goodterms: I told him he could shove his two weeks notice uphis ass and he told me to get the hell out. Perhaps at mostworkplaces it would have seemed a trifle inappropriate toaddress your boss as “shit face,” but at this particular hotel,everyone was so constantly frustrated by the crushingwheels of managerial hierarchy, including the managersthemselves, that it was simply part of the vernacular. Thegeneral consensus was that the place would’ve been betterrun by monkeys. After passing through this rite of passageinto the world beyond paychecks, I tidied up my home asbest I could and, making sure my sublet was installed andcomfortable, packed my bag with all the things a hitchhikermight need—and set out.Day One I spent hitching to Washington, D.C., withoutincident. The airline let me on the plane after I handedthem the bundle of papers I had received from my contacton the inside; after deliberating for fifteen minutes overPage 42 : Testimonials : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Testimonials : Page 43

whether it was mildew or dust on my shoes, the flightattendants finally agreed to let me into business class.Shocked at how the rich have it when they travel, I stu≠edeverything that wasn’t chained down into my satchel. Iknew the whole time I was getting away with something,but I wasn’t quite sure what. So far all was fair weather andthe winds were in my favor.Looking back on it, I have a hard time putting myselfback in the mindset of those fertile days, but I will try todescribe it for you as best I can. We were like match-strikers.We threw out small flames of ourselves all over theplace, waiting for the ultimate bonfire upon which wecould finally pour our fuel. “Light it up” was our motto.This is really the most authentic explanation I can give, andit is accurate. But let’s be clear on one thing: this articleis a testimonial, a mythology, not a description of a timepassed. I want to romanticize the past only to the extentthat it empowers my present life. Let us remember we arefree to choose what colors we paint our histories with.So when I write now about “back in the day,” let’s keep inmind that it’s not a point on the line that extends infinitelybehind us, but a small piece of the ever-evolving characterof our movement, and as much a part of my present self asit ever was.Days Two through Six I hung out in a small Dutch farmingcommunity, shooting peashooters with my best friend’slittle brother and canoeing in the irrigation canals. I visiteda friend at his squat and we took in some punk shows andscammed trains around Holland. I felt like a person on vacation;but I kept my eyes open for holes in the tourist fabricof space time through which I could duck out of sight anddo some damage. When things seemed to have run theircourse in The Netherlands I set my sights on Germany. Ihad a few friends in Hamburg who promised me roofs andsweet popcorn and more punk rock shows. And after all, Iwas heeding the call and didn’t want to get distracted.I don’t remember much about my stay in Hamburgexcept that I saw a squatter outside the Rota Flora balanceon top of fourteen milk crates and that I had a hell of a timegetting out of the place. After being told to “get the hell o≠the road” by an irritated gang of green-clad police, I mademy way to a street corner where there was a line of hitchhikersa mile long. “Just great,” I thought and sat down onmy bag. I think by this time it was already past noon. Thekid next to me was slick. “I’m a chimney sweep. You knowwhat that means?”He had on a black button-up shirt with a sliver dragon on it.“No.”“Means that seeing me is good luck for you!”He was flirting with the cars like hell.“Oh yeah?” A car stopped and picked up a girl on herway to a town in another direction.“She was going to Kiel,” said the kid, and he started toexplain to me how the system of license plates works inGermany. From the first two letters on the plate you canfigure out where the car is registered. “That way,” he said,“you know which cars to really smile at,” and with that heflashed me a grin that would make Chris Rock lose heart.Soon the chimney sweep was on his way. I was glad becausehis finesse and sense of ease was getting me down. Whenhe was gone I felt a little more capable, and I started tryingto flag down cars that seemed to be heading for mainlandDenmark. Eventually I got picked up by a reefer-head whotook pity on me and drove me to a gas station north oftown. From there I got picked up by a trucker who playedCCR and drove me all the way to Flensburg, and somewherearound there I passed the boundary where backwards startsto be longer than forwards; that felt good.Waiting by the side of the road in Odense, I got pickedup by one of those enthusiastic types, folks that pick youup so they can share things with you… you know the onesI mean. When we stopped for gas, he came back from themini-mart (as far o≠ the map as I felt I was, it was still along way from escaping mini-marts) with a colorful bag, andout of it he put two small rocks in my hand that were blackand sandy like asphalt. He popped a couple into his mouthand chewed, smiling, his teeth turning grey before my eyes.I was game for anything. Hell yeah, I thought, and ate one. Ihad never put something so disgusting in my mouth before.It tasted like rat vomit. It tasted like horse ass. He watchedfor my reaction. When I opened my mouth to reply it feltsuddenly like my throat was twisting in an acid-soakednoose. My head shrank into my neck, my eyes teared up.I swallowed the lump like a pill, just to put an end to thetorture. “Ikk… good,” I said, my brow wrinkled like I wasstaring into the sun. “Ghq… yeah,” I nodded, “What thefuck is it?” I stuck out my tongue and made a sound like acat coughing up a hairball.“It’s Turkish Pepper!” he said, and held out the bag. “It’sthe most Danish thing you can do right now, I think.”I thought I had been drugged.“Here,” he said, holding out the bag, “have some!”There I was in the common hitchhiker’s dilemma. DoI dare refuse the man’s kindness? To what depths will wedegrade ourselves in order to keep the field level? Here theman is, graciously driving me around Denmark for free,totally without motive… the least I can do is eat some assflavoredcandy for him.“Aight,” I said, “Lemme hit dat shit.”“What?”“Nothing, it’s good!” I took the bag and ate anotherpiece and cringed. I thought My god! Turpentine! Turpentinecandy! and retched silently. Ants with needle toes crawledalong my tongue and throat. I was relieved when he finallystopped staring at me and turned on the ignition. We pulledout into the night and I put the bag on the dash. He ateseveral pieces as he drove and we resumed our chat aboutwindmills or whatever. He told me about his job inspectingthe cleanliness of Denmark’s coastal waters. The man hadmuch to say. Then the strangest thing happened. The TurkishPepper had an aftertaste! And somehow, deep withinthe aftertaste was a craving for another piece. I looked atthe bag. No, I told myself, don’t. It’s disgusting. The manwas telling me about pH levels and salt water and prawns.Nasty, I thought, and found myself reaching out to the bag.I ate another piece and felt like I was licking the sharp endof a knife used to slice jalapeños. But this time, incredibly, itwasn’t so bad! Before he let me o≠ in Copenhagen, we hadeaten the whole bag between us. He gave me his businesscard and I shouldered my pack for Norrbro. It was aftermidnight. Since then I’ve always had a taste for that hotsalt licorice. It reminds me of grassy fields and broken roadsigns. And windmills.My state of mind was intense as I gradually made myway up to the high latitudes. Stockholm seemed like aroaring cauldron. I was receiving email messages telling ofgreat things to come. All the signsI could possibly read, in the starsand the leaves and in the wingsof birds, were telling me to Go!Go! Whenever I showed my trueexcitement and ambition to peoplethey backed away with looks ofbewilderment, which I was alwaysable to take as a compliment inthose days. I felt like a prophet,though I was only preaching thegospel of myself, to myself.I left Copenhagen on a grey,dreary morning. “Keep on,” I assuredmyself and waited under abridge with my sign until I waspicked up by a dump truck on itsway to Sweden. We crossed thestrait together and he left me in themiddle of the city of Helsingborg. Imade my way by foot towards the outskirts of town, flashingmy Stockholm sign to cars that passed by. By this time Iwas showing visible signs of, as they call it in the Bible, “theRapture.” I wore my feet like a set of wings. The closer I gotto Stockholm, the more I understood the possibilities athand. I had left orbit and was heading for unknown things.The thousand distant suns beckoned and I was showeredwith starlight and courage. Something in that country, for itwas still then an unknown country, was wrapping its armsaround me. And I relished the embrace of the world.In the evening I was standing beside an on-ramp of theA4 outside Linköping. Stockholm was suddenly loominglarge on the horizon. I looked over the directions thatSven had given me. They were vague, filled with sentenceslike “walk into the area of houses after the bus stop.” Ifolded up the paper and put it back into my pocket. Ilooked out across the farmland. The sky folded over onitself in depths of grey upon startling white. Above the horizonthere was a strip of fading blue and the clouds werelined with golden light. There was a chill, damp wind. Acar pulled over.The driver who picked me up was a pilot with a cleanshavenhead and a nice car. He was also a Yankee. “Yeah…I changed my passport out,” he explained, “a couple of yearsback,” and gave me an overview of the process. “You have toLiving then was like standingin the center of a mob, pushingforward. Pushing the people infront of you, able only to see thesmall sliver of ground at yourfeet, and if you were lucky theperson behind you would haveher hands on your back andyou’d be pushing together. Andlo, if there were five or six peoplearound you pushing, you couldfeel like you were getting somewhere,like the mob was moving.renounce your American citizenship,” he said. I watched thefence and the side of the road. He said he spent his time nowflying back and forth to the States for Scandinavian Airlines.“Don’t sound too bad,” I said.“The benefits are good.”“I bet…” I said, watching the fence. Like an endlessstream extending as far as I could see in both directions,and nothing on it.I’m no longer in the car with the pilot. It’s autumn now,in another part of the world, in another time. I’m stilltraveling. There have been no major problems. Getting thecar seat was the trick, finding one and having the wit to buyit. Trips with Arwin. Arwin ishis name. I will be glad to arrivehome again. A welcome relief.St. Etienne. Maintain concentration.After the plane, we drove along way to Angers. We stayed o≠the expensive highways. Whenwe came to Angers the show wasabout to start. We stayed therewith Arwin for a time, until thefirst band began to sound-check.Then Atilla, Arwin, myself, and afriend of the promoter walked tothe flat where Arwin could stayduring the show and where heand I and Atilla could sleep thatnight. He was then quite tired. Itwas raining outside.Atilla had been smart enoughto grab some of the food from theshow; as he unpacked it I said goodbye to Arwin, who wasinterested in the food. I had been thinking that he mightnot want to be left there in a strange environment afterhours upon hours of travel with only Atilla to tie him to theknown universe; but he didn’t flinch. I ran back to the showin the damp French evening just in time to be handed a setlist. And we commenced.I’ve noticed that it’s almost easier for me to let myself goand play my instrument when Arwin is with us on tour. I’mnot sure why. It could be that I feel things more acutely withhim around. Or I just want more than ever to transform theworld. But when I stand there before all those solemn-facedpeople, I really want to grab them, make them understand,make them feel how real and true this struggle is. I reallywant them to choke with it and come up gasping for air,ready to flip over cop cars.After the show I stayed at the venue and waited for dinner,which was served around 10:30 or 11:00. When I returned tothe flat, Arwin was asleep on the floor in his clothes. Atillaand I folded out the bed and I changed Arwin into PJs anda new diaper. Atilla reported no problems. The three of usslept there in our sleeping bags and Arwin with his blanketuntil nine. The next day we all went back to the club to eatbreakfast and it was still raining. We ate along with the othersand loaded in the stu≠ and set out for Bordeaux.Page 44 : Testimonials : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Testimonials : Page 45

“Okay if you just hop out at the light?” We were approachingan intersection. I looked around and saw thelights of the station on the opposite corner.“This’ll be great,” I said, “thanks alot!”“No problem, good luck!”“Alright . . .”“Alright!”I shut the car door and backed away as it rolled on intothe twilight of the city. I took the paper from my pocket andread it again. The first direction was to get into the subwaysystem and head for a station called Duvbo. I heaved theother strap of my bag around my shoulder and jogged acrossthe street.Day 12. I arrived at Sven’s house, the revolutionary collectiveknown as the DemonBox—at its peak, a boilingAll the while you coveted the sacreddream of the mob, the stone-facedmob, breaking into an all-out runacross a grassy plain like bu≠alo,or through city streets like watersthrough a sluice. Beyond that, noone could imagine anything.cauldron of intense idealism,a catalyst, an honest,heartfelt attempt to clearthe hurdle. Powerful. And Idevoured the place.Almost immediately,my pre-Stockholm lifeseemed distant andremote. The number ofresources was overwhelming.The second day Iwas there the doorbell rang while I was washing dishesin the kitchen. I opened the door and was greeted by anoddly shaped man of about thirty-five. “Könuget uåmagottfoordönäåpt,” he said, to which I replied “English, brutha,English . . .”“English,” he stated plainly. “A palette for you.” And hehanded me a piece of paper to sign.I scribbled “Alexander Supertramp” on the dotted lineand looked outside. Stacked by the door was more soymilkand oatmeal than I had ever seen in one place before. Therewere also five boxes of books from Active distribution,one box of error t-shirts from Fruit of the Loom, and threemysterious boxes containing god-knows-what, simply andelusively marked “MNW Music Network.”It was warm outside. All the members of the collectiveand I had been sleeping outside on the courtyard, huddlingin blankets through the cold night. We awoke to blazingsun, took o≠ all but the most necessary clothing, and laylike crocodiles or whales on the beach, storing up vitamin Dfor the dark winter ahead. It seemed to me that if I lay likethat in the sun back home I would be burned to a crisp infifteen minutes, but here there was so much atmosphere forthe sun’s rays to pass through before reaching our skin thatafter nearly seven hours of direct sun my skin still retainedthe pasty complexion of halibut flesh just behind the gills. Itwas a di≠erent world.I was treated to tours of the city. I discovered abandonedbuildings with people who wanted to take me exploring. Iwalked the streets and conducted “drifts” before I was toofamiliar with the city to be able to wander honestly. Onone such excursion I unconsciously made my way uphill. Iwalked among cobblestones and warm-colored buildings.I spotted a bridge high above the street that extended outfrom the side of a mountain, towering over a populatedsquare where streams of people swarmed in lines amongbuses and vegetable stands and advertisements. It wentstraight out of the mountain and met an enormous building,continued around the building, passed it, and on the far side,joined with a tower consisting of an elevator running downinto the pavement below. Beyond the elevator was a vastexpanse of water specked by ships and islands, and I watchedas birds came and landed in nests at the apex of the tower.I made my way up to the bridge and walked out. Theentire north end of the city could be seen. I studied thehorizon, seeing all the black chimneysand spires and church towers.My gaze swept past the square andthe subway station and the endlesstrains of the faithless and the ploddingand sordid crowd; I followedit in a line to the foot of the mountain—andsaw it there at once! Thestaircase! Up the mountain side! Tothe very foot of the bridge where Iwas standing! And down at its basewas the back of the station. I sawthe bushes and the low tin roof, andI felt like the evil and trepidation I had known in my lifeup to then was parting before me like the Red Sea beforeMoses. I walked down there at once and had a look at thehole in the fresh light of day.We organized a Reclaim the Streets and I helped Svenjerry-rig a 500-watt sound system on a flatbed truck. Wellknownhip-hop artists with revolutionary pretensions let itbump as we paraded through the city two thousand strong. Ihelped out by driving a smaller van with about fifty poundsof pasta salad and a backup generator. I followed the crowdin low gear until I was pulled over by the cops, who didn’tquite know what to make of the situation when they sawI was wearing a full-length bright pink evening gown. Thecop looked over my NC driver’s license and wrote down mypassport number and told me I couldn’t drive in the bus lane.Fear couldn’t reach me. I wasn’t afraid, even in situationswhere a little fear might have served me well. I was sweptaway by a feeling akin to love, but more complex or perhapseven beyond mere love. I felt like I was dealing in wares notmentioned in the Bible or the Constitution of the UnitedStates. There was a woman with me, and a relationship wasstarting to take shape. What that relationship could meanor which events would descend from it, no one could tell atthe time. But what was eternal at that moment was morethan enough to justify all blindness to the future.We printed books and released full-length records. I satin the o∞ce for hours and hours, without restriction, learninghow to use design software. Freaks were sitting besideme with headphones plugged into computers, staring at enlargedwave form displays of chord progressions and melodylines. We had humongous parties. Punks, weirdos, andmiscreants of every sort came in droves to drink long-neckbottles of beer and sit in the sauna until five in the morning.The DJs pumped dance music at volume levels that deniedthe laws of physics, and we always listened to The Bangleswhile we were swabbing the decks after sunup the next day.We went after gender in the house like monoclonal antibodieson the hot scent of cancer cells. The women deviseda master list of issues to be addressed, and the men wentwith it into the high towers of the house to discuss whatthe hell was going on. We used role-play and storytellingtechniques to enlighten ourselves; we studied the works ofSimone de Beauvoir and Kajsa Wahlström. We confrontedeach other in low-lit rooms and walked each other uprooftops where we could sit and study and talk in honestvoices and watch the clouds in the evening.Day 35, we went on tour. There were high-profilemusicians living at the collective—the architects of entiremovements, called by higher voices to author entire genres.Composers. Engineers. Filmmakers. Publishers. Demon Boxhad more singer-songwriters per capita than Nashville. A recordingstudio was under construction in the basement. Theo∞ce above housed the most powerful computers availableat the time, and also a full-scale screen printing operation.I’m talking about the big machines professionals use, not thelittle rigs we used in Greensboro. There were scanners, laserprinters, a xerox machine, drafting tables… World famousstreet artists produced the landscapes of cities while we ranaround, sleep-deprived, photocopying manifestoes. Whocould sleep at such a hub? “Let’s take this show on the road,”we said, and started making arrangements.There were people living there who had connections.They started making calls, dropping names, cashing in thefavors everyone owed them. Artists beyond the circle of thecollective were called in. The presses were running aroundthe clock, churning out buckets of proclamations and incendiaries.We scavenged long cords of lights and flags; wetook the big diesel-powered generator and ba±es to isolatethe sound. We took the vacuum cleaner, one of those bigindustrial ones that have no filter and can suck up waterand aluminum cans. We gathered instruments from thefour corners: electric pianos and wind instruments, guitars,drums, slide-projectors, movie cameras, gallons of paint, afull PA system, turntables and crates of records inscribedwith the fattest beats known to man. We packed it all intoa fifteen-person van with a horse trailer and set out to raisethe fucking jams across northern Sweden.For nine days we tried our hands at majesty. We wentfrom village to village like faith-healers, lighting matchesand spinning them flaming to the ground. We played to ahundred kids at a youth camp in Örnsjöldsvik. They lookedat us fresh-eyed, wondering who we were and where thehell we had come from. We played a punk show in Umeå tokids with long dreads and stretched earlobes, and we weredoing a harrowing cover of “Jolene.” The next night weimprovised a show at the top of a mountain in the middleof nowhere, carried on till the sun came up at three in themorning, and we sold cheap food and beer to recoup gasexpenses. At Höga Kusten we shut ourselves in a tiny cabinand played only to each other, sitting at all angles in theroom, letting our talents all the way out, stopping only formeals and dips in the lake. Outside the Urkult Festival wetore an old fire museum level with the fucking ground andthe thirty or so of us in the room came out baptized, readyto put our clean feet on the earth and lift the sky. By thetime we returned to Stockholm, I was beyond in love withone of the members of the band—and unbeknownst to us atthe time, we were having a baby.I stopped counting the days about a month later, whenthe news truly broke. I realized my adventure was onlybeginning—and it would never end. Many things enteredmy life at that time. I traveled farther down dark roads thanI care to disclose, and found courage beyond reckoning. Thewords of poems long recited came crashing down aroundme, falling like the bricks of bombed buildings. Life wasreal, and it terrified everyone. I strode through a litany ofcrushed hopes like a kid in a field picking flowers, or likethe Reaper collecting souls. The days were holy at last.Here it was, after so many years. The great fire. The floorof the Demon Box ignited; flames spread out from whereI was standing. And the ease with which it engulfed theworld was startling. Greensboro burned to the ground beforemy very eyes. The fire, when it finally catches, changeseverything. Nothing in my life went untouched by it. Allmy friends and my family, everyone and everything I knew.And as if all my experiences in life had secretly prepared mefor this moment and it was all finally coming true, I got up,tied my shoes, and went out into the flaming heap like somenewfangled version of a Sufi priest.My brother picked me up at the airport in Washington,D.C. and we drove through the night back to Greensboro. Ifelt like I’d been gone a thousand years. I should have had along beard with snow in it or an old worn-out robe or something,like a wizened monk back from a pilgrimage to theends of the Earth, casting harrowed glances at the trivialitiesthat surround us… Yeah, well, I’d been living in the lapof luxury in Sweden and not paying for a cent of it!Bigger hands than ever were reaching at my throat. NowI needed to get my ass a job and collect my wits. It wasgoing to take more than garlic to keep the bad spirits awayand more than a punk show at the Handy Pantry to makeme feel like we were getting somewhere. I had a long listof things to do. “Sell possessions.” “Call the Embassy.” I washome from my trip. My friends were glad to see me. “Findgood parenting books.” “Learn Swedish.” It was a heavyfucking list! Needless to say, I hit the ground running. Ihad to get back there quick, to experience as much of thepregnancy as possible, and to establish myself so I could beready when my son was born. There was no time to lose.I carried with me everywhere the longing to return; I wasnever for a moment unaware of Stockholm and the worldawaiting me there. I was driven like never before to get backthere, to shake my fists at the sky, make it rain, and see whatgreen things would grow in the new soil.Page 46 : Testimonials : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Testimonials : Page 47

Languages of LegitimacyThe Legal System, Anarchists, and Violence Against WomenIn the heart of the Midwest, a local news broadcastreported that ten juvenile facility correctional o∞cers wereaccused of sexual misconduct and the rape of young femaleprisoners. The news team briefly interviewed one woman,now twenty-one, who was assaulted when she was fourteenby some of these guards. After the standard five-secondsound bite about how the abuse haunts her life, another fiveseconds were dedicated to showing her mug shot and a listof her crimes: theft, shoplifting, something else.Viewers are left with a hollow feeling. What messagehave we been sent? Are we outraged at the abuse of thesechildren? Are we concerned by the oxymoronic “abuseof power?” Are we or are we not supposed to believe thisyoung woman? Are we concerned about this woman beingloose on the street, considering her sticky-fingered history?There are more signals here: in this racially charged city,this young accuser (only one of many) is white, and all theguards are black. Is this going to raise eyebrows? Are localpoliticians going to have to figure out new ways to dancearound these sensitive issues? Which issue will prevail? Willthis city, like Durham 1 , get lost in racial politics over theassault? Public defenders rush up to the podium to declarethat they don’t have enough funding to protect juvenilesaccused of crimes; then they quickly step back down whenthey realize they will be defending these guards. The prosecutorannounces the charges and states that this will not betolerated! But the prison superintendent has to step down1 In spring of 2006, an African American dancer was gang-raped by whitemembers of the Duke University Lacrosse team after she danced at a teamparty. Political mayhem erupted around the crime, not because of thesexual assault per se but more because of the races involved. Race mayhave been an aggravating factor in the attack, but certainly, as in all rapes,gender was also a prevailing motive in this hate crime. However, the corporatemedia quickly lost sight of the issues of gender and violence againstwomen, which were seen as too commonplace next to the racial tensionsof the situation.because, well, she had known about it for years and it actuallywas tolerated. There is a flurry of talk: people line up onthe sides they need to occupy to preserve their jobs or theirvision of the world. After all, a very public trial is coming.Amidst all this, the young woman and what happenedto her, her experience, is lost. We can’t even remember hername. The gruesome act of a hard penis pushing and tearinga girl open, the handprints left on her upper arms from beingheld down, her face covered with tears, the soreness fordays on her cervix, her vagina… this is all gone.Too dirty to speak of, too typical to care about.It is hardly radical to say that the system isn’t fair. Judgesshrug their shoulders and apologize for “re-victimizing thevictim.” Scholars obfuscate behind terms such as “burden ofproof.” Feminist agencies rush in to stand next to those beingre-victimized, but never to get in the way. Still others say “Itold you so” and use a woman’s plight as proof of the need forrevolution or reform, but never o≠er a helping hand.A collective sigh passes from our lips; what is to bedone? Meanwhile, the women who are trying to escapeabuse are left standing in the shooting gallery of the criminaljustice system.It is not just a matter of Kobe Bryant’s defense teambringing up his accuser’s sexual history 2 in court and themedia, nor that “court is scary” and there are not enough“hand holders” to go around getting survivors to court. It is2 Kobe Bryant, a super-famous basketball player, faced rape charges forthe sexual assault of a concierge at a hotel where he was staying. Bryantsaid he did have sex with the nineteen-year-old woman, but that it wasconsensual. As soon as the charges were made public, a smear campaignwas launched on fan sites and across the media against the woman. Detailsof her sexual history, mental health, and so on were broadcast publicly. Thecharges against Bryant were dropped after the woman said that she wouldnot testify. A little later, a Bryant fan was convicted and sentenced to ninemonths in prison for making more than seventy threatening phone calls toBryant’s accuser, threatening to kill her.In patriarchal society, gender is constructed accordingto a binary system in which men are seen as dominant andwomen as submissive. Historically, this has been encouraged,even enforced, by the legal system, the church, the media, andmore subtle social forces, and has been made concrete by thepower these structures have given to men and the constraintsthey have imposed upon women. By confining people to unchosencategories, this binary construction does violence toeveryone, but specifically sets up one class of people—thosewho don’t fall into the traditional understanding of “male”—tobear the brunt of its repressive violence.This article is written specifically about violence againstwomen with an understanding that gender is not rigid andthat even when the genders of people do not fit into the“male=aggressor,” “female=submissive” formula, violentinteractions are influenced by the social construction of gender.This article is not intended to belittle or ignore those whoseexperiences with violence fall outside this male/female binary(there are many of us!), but to encourage a focus on the rootsof violence within our society’s construction of gender.The process of evaluating the impact of gender on our intimaterelationships must occur simultaneously with the dismantlingof gender.that the legal system itself is cruelly against women. Thereis a deadly patriarchal grip on the legal system that promotesan ideology so utterly irrelevant to women’s lives thatit could be laughable if it weren’t partially responsible for somany deaths.A History of Paternalismand Indi≠erenceIt should be no surprise that the legal system is not madefor women. United States law is based on English commonlaw. For a brief period in the Puritan colonies, the existenceof “stable” family life was relied on to knit togethersmall communities, and the state was allowed to mete outdiscipline and handle “family disputes.” After the AmericanRevolution, however, the stick was put back in the husband’shand. Thus, the legal dialogue over the last couplehundred years has been a drawing and re-drawing of theline of who gets to punish whom, with the only constantbeing that that line consistently runs down the middle ofwomen’s bodies.Under English common law a man was given the rightto punish his wife’s transgressions—more importantly, hewas given the power to decide what constituted a transgression—butby the end of the 19 th century, the Victorians wereturning their backs on the “rudeness” and “brutality” thataccompanied the privilege of beating one’s wife. Laws wereenacted that upheld a man’s right to teach his wife “dutyand subjugation,” but the more sophisticated implored thoseless civilized to control their households with more dignityand less primal aggression. Laws commonly known as “therules of thumb” were adopted, restraining men from beatingtheir spouses with anything thicker than the width ofa thumb. Such laws helped men retain an air of sophistication3 while never compromising the control they felt theydeserved over women.So it continued. The legal system either encouraged,enabled, or turned a blind eye to the acts of terrorism andgenocide that were occurring at the hands of the powerhungrymale populace. Rape and abuse became socially acceptedand engrained, keeping all women—whether directvictims or not—in their place through intimidation.At times, the legal establishment expressed its benevolencetowards women by pursuing ridiculous remedieslike the “anti-seduction laws” of the mid-1800s. Theselaws punished men who “seduced” women into “relations”without then marrying them. This benefited the jilted maidens’fathers who needed to marry o≠ their daughters, butstill left unwed mothers to encamp in homes for waywardwomen or, worse, in the seedy taverns where more such“seductions” were bound to take place. The protections thelaws o≠ered to women were not those of justice, but moreakin to draping sheets over bedding plants to protect themfrom a spring frost.Perhaps falsely empowered by the right to vote, or maybeencouraged by Rosie the Riveter, but most likely just actingout of a gut instinct to avert their own extinction, womenin the mid-1900s began to lay low in the trenches andplan. Actions against abuse had been taken before. At theturn of the century, the campaign for prohibition was ledby women trying to avoid drunken beatings. Knowing thatno one would care about their plight per se, these womenemployed notions of “morality” and “purity” and Christianideals to float their cause into the mainstream, whereit became the now deceased 21 st Amendment. Likewise,Margaret Sanger 4 , Emma Goldman, and others promotedbirth control—in part to give women the ability to choosewhether or not to bear children, and in part to obtain forwomen the right not to carry the products of marital rape.But these movements were peripheral. They were designedonly to limit the impact of abuse and to de-escalate torture.By the 1970s, women were ready for something else. Theywere ready to leave.Leaving an abusive man is not an easy task. The vast majorityof the violent assaults and murders of women occurwhen they are leaving or have left their abuser. This makessense if we understand violence against women as a meansof maintaining power and control. A man is most likelyto “lose control” and escalate his tactics when he feels hiscontrol over a woman is slipping. It is not that leaving nevercrossed the minds of Colonial, Victorian, or Depression-erawomen; there was simply no safe way to do so. If a paternalisticlegal establishment supported by the church is waitingto return you to the hands of your abuser and your societyo≠ers few or no options for you to survive on your own, you3 They also helped to foster a class mythology that still infests our perceptionsof abuse today—think of the typical depiction of the slovenly man ina trailer park wearing his “wife beater.”4 See the first issue of Rolling Thunder for a selection from her magazine,The Rebel Woman.Page 48 : Features : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Features : Page 49

What Do We Do?For the millions of survivors of rape and abuse, it’s notnews that the police and courts don’t care. These casesand legal precedents are detailed here not to bog thereader down in legislative matters, but to provide concreteevidence of how utterly useless and irrelevant the law is towomen—and, if I may expand, to all people. When we readThurman, DeShaney, and Gonzales, or even sit in our localcourt on a divorce case, these jargon-heavy legal argumentsgo against our gut instincts and sense of justice.It’s a gut instinct to stop abuse. If someone is being hurt,it makes sense to intervene. This instinct does not comenaturally to the legal system because the legal system isnot natural. Arguing that the state should protect people islike arguing that the desert sun should water peonies. Notonly is protection not the role of the state, but further thestate strips the rest of us of the right to protect each other,leaving no one able to care for anyone. (What the role of thestate is should be obvious by process of elimination.)The law is unfamiliar and superfluous to everyone exceptthose who make their livelihoods from it. It has as much too≠er in terms of safety, problem-solving, and redemptionas a gentlemanly cockroach race. It is a binary responseto multi-faceted problems. The law operates like a sportsgame: two sides duking it out to the end, with a few rulesenforced by a referee. The focus is on winning, and whenone wins the other loses.This makes for a great spectacle, but it is insulting tothe very real trauma of abuse. Rarely does a woman feelshe is in an “either/or” situation. Women have known theirabusers as lovers and as assailants. They have felt hope andcompassion in those relationships as well as fear and pain.A woman knows exactly what happened to her—but in anot-guilty verdict, simply because certain levels of “evidence”have not been reached, her experience is entirelyerased. In fact, survivors often begin to doubt their own experiencesafter not-guilty verdicts. The court is not a placemany women would turn for true resolution.So where does one turn? Where did the young girl whowas repeatedly raped in prison turn? She turned to the media,only to have her rap sheet aired. Gonzales et al. foughtto the very top of the legal system only to be tossed back.Thousands of women dial 911 everyday, and occasionally thepolice make arrests. Jailing abusers is helpful to the extentthat it gives women time to hide or rest, but the verdicts,even when favorable to the survivors’ stories, do little toheal wounds, empower women, or change what happenedto them, let alone put an end to the war against women.It is hard to find anyone beyond the legal system addressingthe issues of violence against women. (When I say “legalsystem,” I am lumping in most domestic violence sheltersand such, as they are increasingly funded by and linked tolocal criminal justice systems). Some communities thathave already developed a healthy disrespect and skepticismfor all things police and all things government have wadedinto the shallow part of the waves and poked around forsome alternatives. Interestingly, however, radical communitiesand anarchists often imitate the legal system whendealing with violence against women.While the battered women’s movement spent most of the1970s trying to convince the police to do more than mediate“domestic disputes,” the anarchist community is obsessedwith mediation—perhaps because it seems to conflict theleast with ideals of collectivity and consensus. But when westep back and look at the situation, what is there to mediate?Mediation implies two or more parties sitting down to“meet in the middle.” It is a good option for competing businessinterests, not for gross violations of another person’sbody and autonomy. Should a survivor of violence have tomake concessions to her abuser? Should an abuser be ableto complain about what is “hurting” him after he has assaultedsomeone? Especially in situations of intimate abuse,the abuser holds a disproportionate amount of power andcontrol over the mediation process, serving only to furtherthe abuse of the survivor. Mediation tends to downplay theseverity of the atrocity that has occurred—just as the courtsystem often relegates “domestic cases” to civil court, interpretingthem as personal disputes rather than crimes.When presented with an allegation of abuse, we insiston interpreting it only as that: an allegation. We ask forobjective facts and evidence, and the burden remains on thesurvivor to provide us with information we can evaluate. Inessence, the community decides whether or not to validateher situation. The right to define what happened to her istaken from the survivor, and she is forced to interpret herexperience through the eyes of those evaluating her story.For example, if the abuse she has endured is most significantlyemotional but the community needs her to present“evidence” they can understand, she may feel pressed tofocus on more physical elements of the abuse, or recant herallegation altogether. She may come to feel that she didn’texperience “enough” abuse to warrant the community’s attention.Women dealing with the criminal justice system experiencethe same alienation, as very few elements of abuseare actually arrestable crimes like battery. While an act ofphysical violence can be reported, financial, emotional, andfrequently certain types of sexual abuse are non-issues tothe police and courts—and, more troublingly, sometimes toanarchist communities as well.Typically, in response to abuse, a band of individuals willform around the abuser (acting as the defense) and anotheraround the survivor (the prosecution), and present the“evidence” until a verdict of opinion crashes down. Communitiesare often distrustful of survivors. This distrust isanother trait many radical communities have in commonwith mainstream society and the legal system. The burdenis on the survivor to prove that the abuse occurred and thatshe didn’t deserve it, instead of on the abuser having toprove that it didn’t occur. This is bizarre, as study after studyshow that false reports are extremely rare, while abuse andrape are uncomfortably common. Why would we think it isany di≠erent in our communities?Still, the typical questions arise as to the survivor’s motives,her desires, her past, her behavior, her need for attention,her complicity. The level of suspicion is much higherin this circumstance than in any other in a radical community:how wary are we of an accuser’s motives when callingout an “infiltrator” or a suspected cop? How skeptical arewe of allegations that someone “didn’t hold the line” at aprotest? Worse, however, there seems to be more discussionof the survivor and her behavior than of the perpetrator.The survivor has nothing to do with the abuse. Essentially,we recreate the courtroom and criminal justice system incases of abuse within our ranks, just without donning robes.By doing this, we render ourselves completely useless. Ifwe don’t mimic the state’s “trial” and “justice” approach,we mediate. If we don’t use either, we cyclically discuss thesituation in small groups, until the issue slips back into the“private sphere.”What we are not doing is addressing the issue of violenceagainst women. The shortcomings of the current anarchistdiscourse are exactly the same as those of the legal system.We isolate our conversations about abuse into black/whiteconversations about particular people in particular circumstances.Just like in a courtroom, a trial is held concerningone abuser, one victim, and one act of abuse—and thefull scope of the oppression of women and the culture ofviolence is lost. We need to be having these conversationspublicly, discussing abuse in terms of capitalism, statism,and patriarchy. We get wrapped up in “responding” to situations—situationsthat undoubtedly need a response butdemand far more than that—and forget to discuss theseissues theoretically.When we do talk about violence against women, weoften muddy the waters and distort the issues. We carefullyrepeat that women can also abuse men, men can abusemen, women can abuse women, trans folks can abuse transfolks, and so on. And while all of these factors do need tobe discussed in our intimate relationships, it is importantnot to lose focus on what is key here. There is a pattern ofaccepted violence and abuse towards women so intensethat all women, whether survivors or not, are a≠ected.We have to address abusers’ actions beyond establishingwhether or not abuse occurred in the first place, and discusswhy they chose to use their social power to dominateothers. We need to talk about patriarchy and authority. Weneed to make it clear that abuse, sexual assault, and anyother form of violence as control are not mistakes or momentsof poor judgment or phases men might go through.We must clearly declare that abuse is not anarchist andwill not be tolerated.Anarchist fumblings around abuse are largely due to thelack of consideration the topic is given. There has been anincrease in the number of “Community Response to SexualAssault” workshops, but while important, these do no moreto eradicate abuse of women than “Shoot the Rapist” shirtsfire bullets. Not only do we have to change our focus from“responding” to “preventing,” we must shift from a criminal-justice-centeredinterpretation of “crime management”to understanding abuse in the context of patriarchy. Thischange would allow us to confront abuse and confront abusers,not mediate with them, not make excuses for them.We’ve got to talk about abuse and deal with abusers like wetruly don’t want this to ever, ever happen again.The good news is there areno anarchist rapists or abusers.That is not to say there are norapists or abusers who hauntthe anarchist community. It istime, however, to step up andrealize that abuse doesn’t comefrom social baggage and poorcoping skills, but is a decisionto attempt to dominate anotherhuman being. Let’s focus and notmake excuses. Meat eaters aren’tvegan. Vivisectors aren’t animalliberationists. Stockholders aren’tanticapitalists. Abusers aren’tanarchists.Page 52 : Features : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Features : Page 53

The Struggle Against Domestic Violence:Interview From The Front LineViolence against womenis sanctioned andencouraged by thestate because it helps tonormalize the restrictedfreedoms governmentstry to sell us.How did you come to choose your currentline of work?I’m a survivor. When I was eighteenI married a man I had been living with.Very soon after we got married, he becameabusive. He began losing his temper,breaking things, and hitting himself. Hewould get worked up, and demand sex tocalm him down. I don’t know where theline was crossed, but soon the sex wasn’tconsensual. Quickly, it became forceful andviolent. I didn’t know what to do—thereis no way to prepare a woman for a lifelike this. We lived at a small farm college,and I know others there knew what wasgoing on, but no one would say a word tome. I was a feminist and raised by radicalparents, and I didn’t know how I ended upin that situation. It was a long time beforeI finally told someone and filed for divorce.A year after the divorce, he attacked meagain—pushing his way into my apartmentand raping me. I moved out of the statethe next week. It was then that I realizedthat if I felt alone, and I lived in such a radical,strong community, then other womenmust be utterly isolated. So I have made alife around advocating for survivors. Youdon’t really have much choice but to fightthis once you realize what is happening towomen’s bodies and lives.What is your job description, exactly? And howdoes your actual work di¤er from that?We call ourselves “advocates.” Whatthis means is we build relationships withsurvivors of abuse. We advocate for themin whatever fashion they ask, whether thatmeans talking to their bosses to makesure they don’t get fired, arguing with thecaseworkers at child protective servicesor the food stamp oªce to protect theirbenefits, or explaining the dynamics ofdomestic abuse to the police who threatento arrest someone “if she calls them onemore time.” We help find safe places forthem to go, we help change the locks ontheir doors. We are there to stand by her.To advocate for someone is to allow her todetermine what she needs, and help herachieve that. We can help her learn aboutthe systems she might be facing, but we willnever do anything to lead her or block her.Regaining autonomy is the most importantthing to most of the women I work with.The last thing I want to do is dominatethem like their abusers have been.So I work in a tiny four-person notfor-profit.I alone meet with about twothousand women a year who are fleeingabuse. I write the grants to keep our programrunning, and coordinate our work asbest I can with other local groups that runshelters and other counseling services. Icounsel women and children, I run a supportgroup, I argue a lot with judges andlawyers and cops.A lot of our grants are from the federalgovernment. They ask us to “counsel women”and “assist them in going to shelter.”This is bunch of shit. These women don’tneed counseling—there is nothing wrongwith them. And no one wants to go to shelter,nor should they. Luckily I get to write our jobdescriptions—they basically say “supportsurvivors and believe survivors.”How do you establish contact with women?At first, we didn’t know how we weregoing to find the women we wanted to help.But we figured that if one in three of ourneighbors was being abused, it couldn’tbe that hard. So we just started talking.We started talking in the neighborhoodgrocery stores, churches, we started holdingawareness events, we went into thewomen’s prison (where the vast majorityare survivors). We made a safety plan andresource list and put it in tanning salons,hair dressing shops, public restrooms. Itwasn’t hard finding people, but it was veryhard to find a safe place to talk to themand help them. A lot of women can’t takeliterature and bring it home, in case theirabuser finds it. To solve this, we made thecards tiny—so you can hide them behind adrawer or, as one woman did, in the lint trapof her dryer. And a lot of women can’t justcome up to you and talk to you in public.Finally, we realized that the vast majorityof these women were having interactionswith the police—either they called911 or a neighbor did. The police wouldsay it was a “civil matter” and tell everyoneto get a protective order. So we went andstarted hanging out in the halls by theprotective order court. Years later, the clerkin the protective order court gave us anold closet to work out of, so we can speakto women in confidence. Now, we easilymeet twenty to thirty new women a day.There have been times when it has gottenso overwhelming, I have hid in that closet,unable to hear any more, and cried.But if you go out to a playground, ora grocery store, or just your front porchand announce loudly that you are againstabuse—shit, no one really says that outloud except when they feel they are supposedto (i.e., when asked)—someonewill come up to you. It may take a while,or she may come back to you weeks later…or she may turn to someone else. But youbreak that wall, just by talking. If you seea woman with a black eye—don’t pretendit’s not there. If you know someone whohas been raped, don’t assume that it’suncomfortable to talk about. Chances are,the discomfort is yours.Given that “counseling” and shelters are uselessor worse for most people in that situation,what do you think a truly useful communitysupport system would look like?I guess I wouldn’t say they are useless,they are just a shitty concept. They shiftthe blame from the abuser to the survivor.And most women refuse to allow that. Ashelter can keep people physically safeif needed. Many of the women I see arefacing homelessness as a result of physicaland economic abuse, so sometimesthey just need a place to stay. But to puta woman and possibly her children intoa multi-bed institution with “lights out”rules and mandatory counseling? That’sthe sort of thing these women are tryingto leave. A more e¤ective alternativeis to create housing, but based aroundautonomy and community. The generalidea would be to get an old apartmentbuilding—or, better yet, a whole neighborhood—andmake it into a¤ordable orno-cost housing. Depending on the safetyneeds of those involved, it might have tobe a secret location. I have been hookingup some women I know to live togethercollectively . . . this way they can addresssome of their common needs together.They can help each other with transportationand child care so they can work, theycan share bills, they can share other taskslike cooking, and, finally, they can build acommunity based o¤ of survivance. Thisanswers the “need” for counseling too, asit brings built-in support. When we havesupport, our abusers back o¤.The most dangerous time for a womanis when she tries to leave. Abuse is aboutcontrol, and when he senses he is losingcontrol, he can become very dangerous.Think about the police at a protest, whatthey do when they see all the protesterswhispering to each other. An abuser usesthe same power and control and coerciontactics. If leaving is the most dangeroustime for her, we have to think seriouslyabout where she is going to be and whereher children are going to be. Shelters arebeing built now with bulletproof glass andhuge security systems. If a woman stays atmy house, she is not getting that. So wehave to talk to her and see what she wants,and what would make her most safe. Thereis nothing worse than people who feel acertain amount of bravado and machismosaying “Come here, I will protect you” toa survivor. I would choose to say “no,thank you” to someone who thought theyalone could “keep me safe”—and then kickthem in the nuts. We can learn a lot aboutsurvival skills from these women, we needto just ask them what we can do.Most women, obviously, want to stayin their homes. This is why we need communitysupport systems that simply don’texist right now. We need neighbors whogive a fuck about each other and comeout of their homes when they hear yellingnext door. We need friends and familywho speak out against violence anddon’t second-guess survivors. We needmen who stand up and tell other menthat they won’t tolerate patriarchy. If ourneighborhoods were talking like this, if wewere letting men know before somethinghappens that the community will respondto his actions… then they would be a saferplace for survivors, a safer place wherehopefully “survivor” and “woman” wouldnot be synonymous.How does most of the money the governmentthrows at this issue get used?Money is a huge problem in this movement.Most people would say we don’thave enough. But I feel it is the conceptof money that is the problem. When wefeel we need money, we create bureaucracy.Bureaucracy creates a dehumanizedsystematic response that “controls” the“problem” of abuse instead of fightingto eradicate it. Money enforces top-downhierarchies that simulate abusive relationships.Sure, if you gave me money today, Icould call a hundred women and get themmoving trucks and move them out of state;I could buy their kids food and clothing; Icould pay for their child care; I could hirethem lawyers so they don’t lose their kids.We use money because we are operatingwithin the systems that exist and we have tosave people’s lives. Women are being killeddaily—scrap that, hourly—and we can’t waituntil we have overthrown the system. But itis imperative for us to understand the waysin which capitalism and authority perpetuateabuse. The reason the battered women’smovement needs money is because it ismarginalized and doesn’t have communitypoweredsupport. There is nothing we dothat “needs” money—if every woman justhad one sincere ally, she could be safe. Butthe bureaucracy that has been created bythe grants and funding has also ordainedthat “professionals” and “social controls”are needed to handle this epidemic, andfriends and families use this to wipe theirhands clean of responsibility.Most government funding comes fromthe Violence Against Women Act (VAWA).You can only get this funding from the federalgovernment if your e¤ort is sponsoredby a local government entity. Basically, thefederal government writes a check andhands it to a local government person,who disperses it to you. The problem withthis is that this “houses” a lot of anti-abuseagencies with the local government—andfor some ridiculous reason, most of theseagencies choose the prosecutors’ oªce orthe police department. This creates a veryPage 54 : Features : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Features : Page 55

We need communitysupport systems thatdon’t exist right now.We need neighborswho come out of theirhomes when they hearyelling next door.We need friendsfamilyandwho speak outagainst violence and don’tsecond-guess survivors.We need men who standup and tell other men thatthey won’t tolerate patriarchy.unnatural “alliance”… and it really hurtsthe women we work for.I am working with a woman right now,for example, called Tejuana. Tejuana isthe mother of three children, the youngertwo with Mark. Mark is a piece of shit.He is very abusive—the first time I metTejuana, her mother came in with herbecause she couldn’t see where she waswalking, since Mark had punched her repeatedlyin the face, swelling both her eyesshut. Tejuana left Mark emotionally yearsago, but she still lives with him physically.She has complicated techniques to calmMark down—from taking the blame foreverything (recently including his wreckingof their car while she was at home)to giving him money to pay prostitutesand buy drugs. Mark is sexually abusingtheir six-year-old daughter. Tejuana issure of this. Mark’s abuse didn’t use tobe as severe—he would hit her and biteher under her clothing, but nothing thatshowed. But now Mark has found thatthe police have become his ally in somefashion, even though he gets picked uphere and there on PI charges and has spenthis fair share of life incarcerated. Tejuanahas a long criminal history. The last timeshe called the police, they arrested herfor an open warrant and left Mark behind(even though he had broken her arm) inthe home, because they didn’t want to“leave the kids unattended” by arrestingthem both. Tejuana didn’t go to court, soshe now has another warrant and cannotcall the police when things get violent.She also cannot go to ANY of our localshelters, because they are partners withthe police departments, and she can’t goto counseling, because the only “openings”are with a woman whose oªce is in theprosecutors’ oªce. Tejuana is terrified ofher kids being given to Mark or being putinto foster care, so she doesn’t want to callchild protective services—they will reporther location and have her arrested too.Oh, and by the way, her open warrant?It’s for failing to pay a traªc ticket in 1998.Describe your interactions with police, judges,and lawyers. How do you see their role inthis society, as it relates to this issue? Whatspecific roles do you often play? How do theysee your activity?If you had told me that I was going tobe dealing with all these people ten yearsago, I would have assumed you meant Iwas going to be in prison. When I was withmy ex-husband it did not once occur to meto call the police. I didn’t even know howthat would work.My job is struggling with the systemthat survivors are forced to deal with ifthe community isn’t stepping up. As anadvocate, I do what my clients want andI never second-guess them. It’s not thetime to promote pretty abstract-seemingtheory about anti-statism—not thatthey would disagree with me (most ofthem agree with my ideas), but it canbe irrelevant to immediate needs. If shewants to prosecute the abuser, I will gowith her to the prosecutors’ oªce and tocourt. If she wants to fortify her house tokeep him out, I have a hammer and canhelp. Unfortunately, we do live in a culturebased around submission and the lack ofself-suªciency—abusers and governmentboth in turn reinforce this. We are toldthat we have to call the police—if youtake matters into your own hands, youare likely to get arrested. That’s the waythe system works.So I deal with cops, lawyers, judgesevery day. I have had to spend hours ona friend’s front porch with my cell phone,citing all the legal reasons why a cop couldand should arrest one guy for violating aprotective order, and having to go on toexplain all the legal action I would help thesurvivor take against the cop if he didn’t(the cop finally arrested the guy—he wasreleased two hours later and burned downmy client’s garage). I have stood in frontof a paternity court judge and read a “DomesticViolence 101” brochure explainingwhy the father’s tying up the mother mightindicate that he shouldn’t have custodyof the child (he got full custody, and myclient was locked up for contempt for yelling“What the fuck?” at the ruling). I havemet with a prosecutor literally in a dimlylit bar so she could explain to me how herboss was trying to make her coerce victimsinto signing papers saying they lied whenthey wanted to drop charges against theirabusers. I have had to testify against apolice oªcer for stalking his ex-girlfriendin his police cruiser when she was tryingto flee to my oªce.What I mostly find myself doing is,even though the “laws” on the booksdenounce domestic abuse and sexualassault, constantly trying to “prove” toeveryone that abuse occurs. I have to tellthe police—even those specially assignedto domestic task forces or sexual assaultunits—that it really does happen. I haveto explain to judges that my clients havenothing to gain by lying. I have to explainto my friends that this doesn’t have to bethe case, and that this is going on everyminute of every day. I am so sick of tryingto convince people that it actually ishappening when for all these women it’snot even a question. I want to stop abuse,but I’m stuck trying to tell everyone thatit matters.My role as an advocate meets a lot ofmixed reactions. I have one judge whogives me the names and phone numbersof survivors she has seen in her court soI can o¤er them my support. There is adeputy who has emailed me asking me tocome out to his beat and go door to doorwith him, talking about abuse. But thenthere are others.Last fall, I had a nineteen-year-old girlnamed Stephanie come into my oªce.She was crying so hard, her sister hadto explain the situation to me. Stephaniehad been living with her boyfriend Brian.She had a two-week-old son with him.Since giving birth, Brian had cracked herribs and locked her in the bedroom. His“reasoning” was that now that she hadregained her figure after the pregnancy,she would cheat on him. So, she snuckout the bathroom window, and went toher sister’s house. They called the police,who told her that they would not escorther to get her son, and she had to get aprotective order. So, we got an order andshe went back to the police. The same officersshowed up, and soon I got a call onmy cell phone from Stephanie. Stephaniewas saying that since she met the oªcerback at the house where Brian and thebaby were, the oªcer was trying to arresther for violating the protective order. I goton the phone to the oªcer, and kindlyexplained that she couldn’t violate herown protective order, and that Brian hadno legal rights to the child. The oªcer toldme to shut up and that he was going to“take care of” Stephanie. Stephanie camedown to my oªce again, and I called amissing persons detective, who agreedto meet Stephanie near the house andgo get the baby with her. As Stephaniepulled up to meet the detective, a squadcar pulled between her car and that of thedetective, and the same oªcer from beforegot out and cu¤ed Stephanie. He askedto see her license; she handed it to him,and he broke it in two and arrested her fordriving without ID. Stephanie didn’t getprocessed at the county jail because thatwasn’t even an arrestable o¤ense, and shegot to ride back to her car in the wagonand get dropped o¤ again.At that point, three days had passedsince Stephanie had crawled out the window,and it had become pressing to find abreast pump since she hadn’t been able tofeed her baby in all that time. After that, wedrove out to the house, and again calledthe police. I was carrying a law book thatspecifically stated that Stephanie was theonly one who had any legal rights to herson, Brian’s extensive rap sheet includingmultiple arrests for crack and meth, anda car seat. The responding oªcer cameout and got the child for us. However, officerfriendly from the days previous thenshowed up and announced that Stephaniesmelled like marijuana, and, while he couldnot arrest her, he declared both Brian andStephanie unfit and called Child ProtectiveServices to take their son to foster care.Stephanie was then charged by CPS for“failing to protect” her son because sheleft him with Brian, who poised a potentialdanger to the baby.So, Stephanie is in jail, again, the childis in foster care, and the last I saw Brian,he was watching “Scrubs” on TV in hishome. I went to the police department andrequested to speak to the chief, and he toldme to wait outside the roll call room. Thirtyminutes later, after all the oªcers havebeen briefed on what was described to meas “a little situation that has arisen,” thedoor from roll call opened and the oªcersbegan to file out. One by one, about fortyoªcers passed me, each in turn muttering“Cunt” to me as he passed, with a handful,embarrassed, looking away.I understand that at one point you took itupon yourself to date police oªcers as a kindof anthropological field work. How did youdecide upon this project, and how did yougo about it? What did you learn?Oh, yeah . . . that. I did do that, didn’tI! I think that one of the best ways to getover our fears of authority, or to dismissthe idea that any authority exists over us,is to make fun of it. A lot of cultures havedone this—mocking their oppressors intheir art and theater, for example. Dealingwith police pretty regularly, I was struck byhow human and silly they all were, and Ibecame fascinated by the idea of theseguys’ “lives beyond the badge” and whatthose might consist of. In truth, it all cameout of me tearing into this police oªcerafter he editorialized in court about how hefelt that my client must like the abuse sinceshe kept going back. I tore into him in thehall outside the court; I don’t remembereverything I said, but I remember it endedwith “… and that is why you are a bad person.”So, a few days later, he calls aroundto get my oªce phone number, and asksme out to dinner! At first, I was pretty surehe wanted to lure me some place alone todismember me, but then I started to thinkthat he might just hate himself, that insome masochistic way he needed me toinsult and reprimand him. That was waytoo intriguing to ignore.So I went on dates with cops. Mostof them were pretty nice dates, if you areinto that sort of thing—you know, dinnerand a movie. On one date I experiencedmy first-ever legitimate bar fight, whichPage 56 : Features : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Features : Page 57

It is imperative that peopleunderstand how capitalismand authority perpetuateabuse. The battered women’smovement only needs moneybecause it is marginalizedand doesn’t have communitypoweredsupport.Bureaucracy createsa dehumanizedsystematic responsethat “controls theproblem” of abuseinstead of fighting toeradicate it.culminated in the oªcer telling me to waitin his truck and letting me know that if Ineeded it his service revolver was underthe front seat! What? Another date got akey to the roof of the court building; westood on the roof at two in the morning,and I convinced him to join me in spittingon cop cars twenty stories below.I did learn some interesting things,sociologically speaking. I would preparequestions that I wanted answered on thedate—sometimes my friends would helpme think of things. I learned that most copsdon’t know much about statutes and law,but do know a lot about police protocol.So—for all those people who do legaltrainings, that’s good, but we also shouldbe getting our hands on the protocol ofeach local police department, so as tofind out exactly how a cop will react to agiven situation. As you might guess, theyare pretty big rule followers. I did find thatmost of them, when trying to convince methat they weren’t all law-and-order, wouldtell me that they smoked a lot of pot. Thatsort of thing hasn’t impressed me sinceI was twelve.My final thesis on this project was thatthere are two types of cops: asshole copsand Richard Scary cops. Asshole cops arethe majority. They want control. They arethe ones who push the domestic abusestatistics up to a 40% perpetration rateamong oªcers. They thrive on authority;they asked me out because they liked thechallenge of proving the feminist wrong.Richard Scary cops are the cops representedin those children’s books with theworm and the cat family. They becamepolice to help people cross the road. Theyexpressed to me a big concern about lockingpeople up because it didn’t prevent orstop crime. They talked about how theyavoided hanging out with other cops. Theytalked A LOT about their children andtheir own childhoods, which tended toinvolve trying to protect someone fromabuse. When I got arrested most recently,it was one of these guys who walked mybail through and got me out. Don’t thinkI wasn’t spared a typical “cop lecture,”though. You all know how those go: “gettingo¤ easy this time/consider this yourwarning, blah blah blah.”Finally, a friend came to me and saidhe was scared for my safety doing this. Iguess I hadn’t thought about that. I wasjust enjoying pissing them o¤ and refusingto go on second dates. I’m glad I did it,though, because on long car rides thereis always someone in the car who thinksthis shit is hilarious.Since that time, I’ve worked with anumber of women who are abused bypolice oªcers. What I can’t do in thosesituations is just shit-talk cops. Eventhough they are being abused, there isstill a reason they got involved with anoªcer. So it would alienate them for mejust to say, “Well, that’s not a surprise.”I guess we have to remember that thesewomen have experienced these men asoªcers and as abusers, but also at timesas lovers, as parents to their children, asfriends, etc. It’s important to rememberwhen talking to survivors that this isn’t asimple question of good and evil, but itis very complex emotionally.What advice would you give to someonestarting from scratch hoping to focus onsupporting survivors and putting an endto abuse? What do you think are the mosteffective ways to apply energy? Are thereany things you know now that you wish youhad known when you first started workingas an advocate?There are a million things I wish I hadknown, but they aren’t things I could haveknown not having spoken with the thousandsof women I have now met.There are two things I would stress forpeople who want to stop abuse. One is totry to stay as grassroots as you can. Thisis probably easier for people who don’thave financial issues or who are doingthis sort of work part time. The biggestproblem facing the survivor’s movementis institutionalization. It is only healthyfor this to be a community issue, not agovernment issue or social service issuesolely. People working in not-for-profits aredoing good work, but they are bound bygrants and by reputation (if you make thecourts really mad, for example, they maytake it out on the next woman you try tohelp). So if you can, lend support to thosenot-for-profits and shelters, but not as avolunteer for their actual agency.Collectives and groups of friends cando amazing support work. You can collectdeadbolts and give a phone number to alocal agency so their clients can call andhave you come change the locks and keysto their homes to keep their abusers out.You can collect old cell phones to give tosurvivors—any cell phone can be usedto call 911, even if its service has beendiscontinued. You can start a locationcenteredsupport group, non-aªliatedwith any other group so it can proceed asits participants want it to.The second thing would a pretty obviousone: speak out. I know this is saidabout every issue—but think about whatyou are doing when you hang a flyer in agrocery store or put abuse on a communityagenda. Not only are you opening dialogue,but you are also aªrming the experiencesof hundreds of women who will read thatposter. Communities need to establish thisconversation before something happens.We have too many workshops about “communityresponses to sexual assault” (andless frequently to “domestic violence”).While a good discussion to have, all thatdoes it make it feel like what we can do isrespond to, not stop, abuse. Communitiesneed to know what they are goingto do about abuse, in their community,in their neighborhoods, before it comesup—before people get uncomfortablebecause they “know him, and he seemslike such a nice guy” or other irrelevantdistractions arise. If you and your family,or you and your housemates, or you andyour infoshop, or you and your school, oryou and whomever, haven’t had this conversation,sit down and have it now.If there is one thing I wish I had realizedwhen I started this work, one thingthat I would encourage others to thinkabout, it is that I wish I’d known I wasn’tgoing to have an answer. Once immersedinto the pain of these stories, you realizewhat complicated beasts patriarchy andcapitalism are. Sometimes I feel like mywork is just running my head into a brickwall trying to tear it down. My head isbloody and throbbing… but the wall hasa few dents too. Too many people, myselfincluded, have insulted the experience andtrauma of survivors by saying, “This ishappening because of capitalism, whichis the real problem,” or “This is because ofclass anger” (the most bogus statement Irepeatedly hear). These responses aren’tsmart, nor are they answers to real people’sproblems. We need to be careful notto superimpose other issues over abuseto qualify it as relevant to revolutionarystruggle. Let these women speak for themselves.We don’t have the answer, but thisshouldn’t stop us from this work.How does this work intersect with your otherundertakings as an anarchist and anticapitalistwarrior? How are they relevant to it, howdo the two inform each other?Not long ago, a close friend asked me,“well, what does your work have to do withanticapitalism?” I got really mad, then Icried. To me, it is glaringly clear.Anarchists are oddly concerned withlabels and qualifications. I often feel likeI am being asked to legitimize my workaccording to an “anticapitalist” framework.While I have no trouble doing this, I alsodream that one day “anticapitalist” workwill have to be legitimized as “feminist.” Itmay not be in vogue, but it is crucial—youcannot eliminate capitalism without eliminatingpatriarchy (and visa versa).Abuse is the most intimate form ofcapitalism. When we talk about powerand control in partner abuse, we are discussingthe same dynamics that play outbetween an individual and the state, aworker and a boss, an animal and a vivisecter.False notions of “authority” exist inall these circumstances. I use the expression“violence against women” insteadof “intimate partner abuse” deliberately,for very specific reasons—not to cover upthe fact that men can be victimized too,but to refocus the discussion. We are nottalking about random incidents here, butpatterns of abuse that are endorsed byour society to control an entire segmentof the population.When we speak of abuse and violenceagainst women, we are discussing threatsand coercion that are nearly identical tothose used by the state or police to maintain“order.” More than half the womenincarcerated in the US are in there forcrimes related to abuse: crimes they wereforced to commit by their abuser, or thatthey committed against their abuser inself defense. At one point I was runninga prison support group for survivors. Thesimilarities between prison and living withan abuser were not lost on those women:their every move was controlled, they were“kept in line” by threats of violence, theywere isolated and emotionally stripped.Violence against women is sanctionedand encouraged by the state because ithelps to normalize the restricted freedomsgovernments try to sell us.Abuse is not just a “woman’s issue,”and neither is fighting it—it is intimatelyconnected to fighting the state and allother forms of authority. We are in themidst of a war against women. Womenare emotionally and physically terrorizedto maintain hierarchies that are convenientfor men, the government, and theeconomy. Batterers are the footsoldiersupholding the company line, and rapistsare the shock troops.Working with survivors is crucial to myvision of anarchy. I am able to give andreceive support. We create a communitybased on shared experience. Don’t underestimatewhat a powerful force this can be.Unlike most people I know, survivors havelearned how to throw a punch. As ValerieSolanas said in the SCUM manifesto,someone had the dumb idea of trying torelegate us to the kitchen, which is whereall the knives are.Page 58 : Features : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Features : Page 59

A people without a history can be madeto do anything. They will submit to anydegradation because they have forgottenthe possibility of something di¤erent. Thisis why colonial powers have always hurriedto erase the history of those whoseresources and labor they wish to steal:language and culture are either twisted tofit colonial paradigms or eliminated entirelyby processes at once simple and extremelysubtle. If these processesare successful, the billy clubneed never be raised,and the Statecanmaintainits image as aneutral peacekeeper.This is what is currentlyhappening with the assimilationof queer people in the United States.While we are not a “colonized” people inthe traditional sense, queers in this countryhave historically been forced to the backalleys,brothels, and “bad” sides of townof this culture. 1 It must be said that thismarginalization has never a¤ected all ofus equally: there have always been lesbianshiding in mansions while bull-dykes risktheir lives on picket lines and factory floors,just as there are poor transwomen who selltheir bodies to buy hormones while wealthyrepresentatives of the Human Rights Campaignflatter the political parties who denyfree health care to those same women.In this sense, not only are queers not a“colonized people,” it can hardly be said1 In this article, the term “queer” refers to anyonewho identifies with or historically has been in someform of opposition to gender and sexual norms.This could include lesbians, gays, bisexuals, transgenderedpeople, two-spirit folks, sex workers,polyamorists, and those opposed to the institutionof marriage. While the author recognizes that manyof these people do not personally identify with theterm “queer,” nor does this term mean the samething to all who do identify with it, it is used herefor its umbrella-like quality.Direct Action inQueer ResistanceStrugglesthatwe are“a people” atall. We are many,not one.Nevertheless, “we” dohave multiple histories of resistance,which have been created and maintainednot only by those in the streets, butalso by those who continue to documentthem. E¤orts to cover up these historieshave recently increased—and they are nolonger just the work of Christians, politicians,and text-book companies, but alsothe most privileged of “us.” In order toaccumulate privilege and power for themselves,wealthier, predominantly white gaysand lesbians and the politically powerfulorganizations that represent them are doingtheir best to erase the rest of us. Thisis certainly not new—but more than evermiddle- and even working- and lower-classqueers seem to be going along with it aswell. Not just national but also grassrootsgroups all over the country are obsessedwith electoral politics, marriage, and militaryservice. Accordingly, they are distancingthemselves from their own histories, whichgenerally challenge these institutions andhave often run parallel to (or even “aheadof”) various anarchist struggles.This article can serve as a starting pointfor those who need to rediscover radicalqueer history and apply its lessons to theproblems anarchists currently face. I hopeit can also demonstrate to straight folkswho wish to act in solidarity with queerpeople(s) that there is an alternative tobegrudgingly supporting gay marriageor some other nonsense. Many queersrefuse to acquiesce to the assimilation andsubmission being pushed by the privilegedsectors of thegay “movement,”and I can only hope thatanarchists will be on the forefrontof this refusal.Stonewall Was a RiotAny look at radical queer history has toinclude the Stonewall Riots. Queer resistancedid not begin with these riots: fromthe female “support networks” within theearly settlement house movement to thebody language, style, and “camp” of earlygay performers and the quiet but courageousprotests of the early Mattachine Society, therehas always been a subtle resistance. But itwent public at Stonewall in a big way.Throughout the early 20 th century,and especially after World War II, barswere increasingly the cultural and socialcenters for Americans gays and lesbians.While this was the case across the board,it was especially true for working-classgays and lesbians. Consequently, policeoften focused their repression on thesebars, resulting in the extremely violent andsometimes deadly raids described by LeslieFeinberg. In New York State there was astatute ordaining that women and menhad to be wearing at least three items ofclothing “appropriate” to their birth sex.In other words, it was often those whowere the most gender-variant who wouldreceive the worst abuse.In New York City, many gay bars wereowned by the Mafia, and it was routine forthe owners to bribe the police in order to beinformed when the raids would happen. OnJune 28 th , 1969, though, an unanticipatedraid on the mostly male gay bar StonewallInn resulted in riots that shook GreenwichVillage for five days. It’s not clear whatsparked it all, but according to some, adyke who “had to be more butch than thequeens” started to rock a paddy wagonback and forth. Then, “a leg in nylonsand sporting a high heel shot out of theTHIS IS FOR EVERY TIMEI’VE BEEN CALLED FAGGOT!back of the paddy wagon into the chestof a cop,” and people began unarrestingthose in the paddy wagon. According toMartin Duberman’s account of the beginningof the riots,The crowd, now in full cry, started screamingepithets at the police—“Pigs!” “Faggotcops!” Sylvia and Craig enthusiasticallyjoined in, Sylvia shouting her lungs out,Craig letting go with a full-throated “Gaypower!” One young gay Puerto Rican wentfearlessly up to a policeman and yelled,“What you got against faggots? We don’tdo you nuthin’!” Another teenager startedkicking at a cop, frequently missing asthe cop held him at arm’s length. Onequeen mashed an oªcer with her heel,knocked him down, grabbed his handcu¤keys, freed herself, and passed the keysto another queen behind her.The mob, made up largely of the queer,“The cops picked out the moststone butch of them all to destroy withhumiliation, a woman everyone said‘wore a raincoat in the shower.’ Weheard they stripped her, slow, in frontof everyone in the bar, and laughed ather trying to cover up her nakedness.Later she went mad, they said. Latershe hung herself…I’m remembering the busts in thebars in Canada. Packed in the policevans, all the Saturday-night butchesgiggled and tried to flu¤ up their hairand switch clothing so they could getthrown in the tank with the femmewomen—said it would be like ‘dyin’and goin’ to heaven.’ The law saidwe had to be wearing three pieces ofwomen’s clothing.I never told you what they did tous down there—queens in one tank,stone butches in the next—but youknew. One at a time they would dragour brothers out of the cells, slappingand punching them, locking thebars behind them fast in case we lostcontrol and tried to stop them, as ifwe could. They’d handcu¤ a brother’swrists to his ankles or chain him, faceagainst the bars. They made us watch.Sometimes we’d catch the eyes of theterrorized victim, or the soon-to-be,caught in the vise of torture, and we’dsay gently, ‘I’m with you honey, look atme, it’s OK, we’ll take you home.’We never cried in front of the cops.We knew we were next.”homeless, Latino youth who frequented thebar, used bricks, broken bottles, and coinsfrom parking meters uprooted nearby toforce the cops back into the bar, which wasthen set ablaze. Riot police came to theirrescue, but when they tried to disperse thecrowd it simply reformed behind them,throwing bricks, lighting trash cans onfire, and taunting them with chorus linesof mocking queens kicking their legs inthe air and singing:We are the Stonewall girlsWe wear our hair in curlsWe wear no underwearWe show our pubic hairWe wear our dungareesAbove our nelly knees!Rioting and block parties went on forfour more days after the initial riots. Wordspread rapidly across the city and thenthroughout the whole country—and beforelong, the beginning of the gay liberationmovement was at hand. While straightgroups and individuals were slow to catchon and often extremely homo- and transphobic(one participant in the Stonewallriots, Jim Fouratt, remembers calling andasking his straight leftist friends to comeout, none of whom did), Stonewall helpedspark a new wave of groups like the GayActivist Alliance (GAA), the Gay LiberationFront (GLF), and the Street TransvestiteAction Revolutionaries (STAR) and alsohelped reenergize the already existing“homophile” movement. These groupsforced tremendous changes in local lawsand police behavior, set up support networksand social services for gay youth,established gays and lesbians as a visibleand unashamed presence in Americanculture, fought side by side with groupslike the Black Panthers and the YoungLords, and instilled a sense of pride andself-esteem in a people who had beentaught all their life that they had no rightto exist.“Tree Limbs,Parking Meters, andPieces of Asphalt”The White Night Riots occurred in SanFrancisco on May 21 st , 1979 in responseto a verdict practically exonerating themurderer of that city’s first openly gaysupervisor, Harvey Milk. Dan White, anex-cop, assassinated both Milk and MayorGeorge Moscone on November 27 th , 1978,but was let o¤ with a four-year manslaughtersentence, largely due to the fact thatHarvey Milk was gay. 2 According to oneparticipant, “the entire city was in shock.”Over a thousand people took over CastroStreet shouting “City Hall!” and startedmarching in that direction. By the timethe crowd reached the Civic Center it waseven larger; people began to attack thebuilding’s doors and windows with ironbars, finally setting it on fire. Accordingto another rioter,For some reason they had parked policecars at the other end of the block. No onereally wanted to destroy City Hall. They justwanted to make a statement. However,when the activists went after the cars,cheers of approval came from the crowd. Adozen police cars were torched. Car hornsand sirens from the burning cars added achaotic note to the smoky night air.Hand to hand fighting with police brokeout, with protesters using “tree limbs andparking meters and pieces of asphalt” asweapons. The street fighting continuedon into the night when police returned tothe Castro district, where it became cleareven to those who were not involved inthe fighting near City Hall that, accordingto one participant, “We were at war withthe police! We had been pushed beyondour ability to swallow any more hatredand we did what we had to do.” Anotherrecalls, “I remember seeing a six-foot talldrag queen in high heels throwing bricksat cops, screaming, ‘This is for every timeI’ve been called faggot.’”Only twenty-two people were arrestedthat night, out of thousands of participants.Probably the best testament to the WhiteNight rebellion is the journal entry of ChrisCarlsson, who wrote,The riot had progressed, as San Franciscoriots do, from the initial angry crowd (inthis case, of gays) to a gradual influx ofangry young black and brown men spoilingfor a chance to even the odds with thecops. The amazing sense of community2 Milk’s openly gay sexuality was exploited byWhite’s defense during the case in order to gainfavor with the jury. White’s lawyer also presentedhis habit of consuming large amounts of Coca-Colaand twinkies as evidence of extreme depression andtherefore temporary insanity. This is now mockinglyknown as the “twinkie defense.”Page 60 : Old News : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006-Leslie Feinberg, Stone Butch BluesRolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Old News : Page 61

that had existed during the riot evaporatedwithin 24 hours. Many of us were confusedby the contrast: the riot’s euphoria temporarilyintoxicated us with the sensation oftrue community. The aftermath returnedus with a hard thud to a city full of barrencrowds of disconnected people.A Legacy of DirectActionIn addition to spontaneous insurrectionslike the Stonewall and White Nightriots, groups like the GLF, GAA, and especiallyACT UP went on to create a tremendouslegacy of protest, communityorganizing, and direct action. GAA, forexample, devised the tactic of the zap,the predecessor of today’s flash mobs.Hoping to get hustling queer teenagers o¤the streets and frustrated with the transphobiaof the Gay Activist Alliance, SylviaRay Rivera helped found the Street TransvestiteAction Revolutionaries to providefood and shelter to local homeless queeryouth. Their first collective house was asquatted trailer in Greenwich village, whichwas driven o¤ in the middle of the nightby its owners (with people still inside!)and had to be replaced by a Mafia-ownedbuilding. STAR folks covered the rent byhustling on the streets nearby. In 1988, theAIDS Coalition to Unleash Power (ACTUP) formed to use direct action and civildisobedience to focus attention on theAIDS epidemic, which was being writteno¤ as “the gay disease” by straight society.We owe much of the medical progress infighting this disease to the amazing lockdowns,human blockades, communityorganizing, and social programs providedby this incredible group that forced straightsociety to take AIDS seriously.This legacy continues in today’s newwave of radical queer organizing. Alongwith groups like Queer Nation and theLesbian Avengers, who helped shut downthe WTO in Seattle in 1999, groups likeGay Shame, the Pollinators, Queer Fist,Fed Up Queers, FIERCE, and the GenderMutiny Collective have used direct action,street protests, and community programsto further local queer struggles. In additionto focusing on gentrification, policebrutality, and healthcare access, thesegroups have increasingly found themselvesobliged to target gay groups like the LogCabin Republicans 3 , the Human RightsCampaign, and the Gay and Lesbian TaskForce for their assimilationism and betrayalof “the rest of us.”Last fall, for example, the president ofthe Log Cabin Republicans Patrick Guerrerowas paid to speak at one universityby none other than the campus GLBTSAgroup. To counter this outright betrayal,activists from the Gender Mutiny Collectivetabled the event with anarchist andradical queer literature and handed outhundreds of oªcial-looking “An Eveningwith Patrick Guerrero” pamphlets at thedoor. While Guerrero began his speech,audience members opened what they tookto be his oªcial program to find fierce anarcho-queercritiques of the Log Cabin Republicansand resources for local radical queerorganizing. Guerrero’s speech was thendeliciously interrupted by a pie to the facefollowed by a well-coordinated fire alarm.Forced by the alarm to leave the building,the Log Cabin Republican president and hisbewildered audience were confronted by atwo-hundred-square-foot banner reading,“Queers Bash Back” with a circle A.Queers in YourNeighborhoodMany of the individuals and groupscomprising this “new wave” of queerstruggle consider themselves anarchistsor directly acknowledge their anarchistinfluence. There is a wonderful flexibilityand anarchic character to the word“queer”; both it and anarchism are labelsimbued with paradox. Just as anarchismis a political movement of a fiercely antipoliticalnature, so too is the label queerthe ultimate anti-label. Just as anarchismsimultaneously encourages both autonomyand collectivity, so too does queer exposesocial constructs such as gender roleswhile refusing to allow them to dictate whowe are. In this way anarchism and queerare able to exist beyond these dichotomies,embracing these tensions as necessaryparts of each other.Queer has also influenced anticapitalistmovements around the world. From thepink fairies who used hockey sticks to slap-3 The Log Cabin Republicans is an organizationof gay Republicans. Unfortunately, this is neithera joke nor a contradiction in terms—but feel freeto laugh, all the same.shot teargas canisters back at riot copsin Genoa to the militants who catapultedteddy bears over soon-to-be-destroyedsecurity fences in Quebec, it’s clear thatqueer camp and carnival have found anew home. For many of us, it is less importantto analyze whether anarchism asan abstract ideology has all the answersfor queer people than it is to identify thepotential of queer youth tapping into theglobal networks of resistance that can becharacterized as “anarchistic.”Part of this potential is the simultaneousreinvigoration and destruction of aGLBT “movement” which is so stale andstagnant that it has practically ceased toexist. We may occasionally fall under theshadow of the Human Rights Campaigndinosaurs and the sexist corporate beersponsors of Pride marches, but our heartsremain loyal to the riots of Stonewall andthe direct action of ACT UP. This is not justa “political” loyalty; our radical past createdthe very language by which we knowourselves, and those struggles providedthe access to safety, warmth, and healthwhich kept us alive.This overview is little more than a startingpoint for those wishing to learn moreon their own, but it o¤ers a glimpse of aqueer politics with a markedly di¤erentorientation towards the “political,” in whichpatriarchy is not met with ballots andcompromises, but blockades, bricks, andbroken bottles. Let us never forget that thefirst brick at Stonewall wasn’t thrown by awhite gay man in a fashionable suit, but bya pissed o¤ Latina drag queen who turnedtricks to get by. These are our roots.For further reading, try Stonewall byMartin Duberman, That’s Revolting! QueerStrategies for Resisting Assimilation editedby Mattilda, The Trouble with Normal byMichael Warner, and Virtual Equality byUrvashi Vaid.Page 62 : Old News : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Old News : Page 63

THE WORLD BANK CONFERENCE THAT WASN’TIn June of 2001, the World Bank wasscheduled to hold a conference in Barcelona.Previous meetings of the World Bankand International Monetary Fund, notably inWashington, D.C. and Prague the previousyear, had been disrupted by fierce direct action,and thousands were expected to protestin Barcelona as well.In the decade since the 1992 Olympics hadbeen held in Barcelona, the squatting movementhad gained momentum as squattedsocial centers proliferated throughout the city.The squatters joined others in coordinatingpreparations for the protests on an internationallevel. After reviewing the security plansof the Spanish police, World Bank oªcialsannounced on May 19 that the conferencewas cancelled for fear of disruption.This was hailed as a major victory for theanticapitalist movement. In the UK, The Guardianreported that “the World Bank was clearlyangry that its conference would now have tobe held over the internet,” adding that “theBarcelona meeting had been meant to improvethe image of the World Bank.” Caroline Anstey,head of media relations and chief spokespersonfor the World Bank, whined that a violentminority was taking away the World Bank’sright to free speech—yet when questionedby Indymedia reporters about the exclusionand violent repression of thousands at themeetings in Washington, D.C. and Prague,she denied any knowledge of these, despitehaving been present at both events 1 .Many saw the cancellation as evidencethat mass mobilizations against capitalistsummits could actually impede the progressof corporate globalization. Arguing that resistanceshould be intensified now that theiropponents were on the run, organizers calledfor the demonstrations to continue as planned.For the first time since the Reclaim the Streetsaction in London on June 18 th , 1999 that inauguratedthe era of anti-globalization massmobilizations, there was to be a major massaction without a meeting to protest.1 In D.C., police raided and shut down a convergencecenter days before the protests were to begin, andwent on to beat and arrest some 1300 people. InPrague, permits were revoked, people were detainedat the border and deported, and thousands reportedunbelievable torture and abuse at the hands of theCzech police. All of this was thoroughly documentedby independent media and resulted in extensive legalaction against the police. The accepted norm for summitorganizers and city oªcials is to instruct policeto use excessive force, turn a blind eye while they do,then respond to the subsequent outrage with hollowapologies and cover-up campaigns.In retrospect, one could describe the cancellationof the World Bank conference as thehigh point of the anti-globalization phase ofthe contemporary anticapitalist struggle. Fora few months, state and capitalist summitswere met with massive and militant resistanceeverywhere they took place. The protests atthe FTAA summit in Quebec City the previousmonth had reached the highest level ofmass confrontation seen in North Americasince the Los Angeles riots in 1992, and theprotests against the European Union summitin Gothenburg, Sweden were right around thecorner. At the G8 summit in Genoa in July, tensof thousands joined in shutting down the cityand decimating corporate shopping districts,meeting police repression that did not stopshort of cold-blooded murder 2 . Demonstrationsplanned for the joint IMF-World Bankmeeting in Washington, D.C. scheduled forthe following September were expected toescalate the conflict further, but the attacksof September 11, 2001 occurred first, shiftingthe course of history 3 .Even at the time, the drawbacks of summitbasedresistance were obvious: as a strategy, itwas essentially reactive, and cost a great deal ofenergy without doing much to build long-termcommunity or e¤ect immediate change in dailylife. With several years’ hindsight, we can alsoidentify the advantages of the model: it broughtgreat attention to the anarchist movement, itwon victories—however symbolic—that raisedmorale for oppressed peoples everywhere, andabove all it provided a point of engagement,an opportunity to join in collective struggleand thus call into question the legitimacyof the capitalist world order. Whatever itsshortcomings, the era of anti-globalizationmobilizations is part of our contemporaryanarchist heritage, and as such it can provideus with both concrete lessons and a generalsense of what we can accomplish.The accompanying comic and accountchronicle the demonstrations that took placein Barcelona during a brief period when wehad the power to thwart the plans of the WorldBank itself. Let it not be the last.2 R.I.P. Carlo Giuliani, shot in the face and then runover by a police jeep while protecting lines of protestersfrom police attacks. All charges against the policeoªcers who murdered him were dropped and no trialever took place.3 See “The Craziest Walk Ever” elsewhere in this issuefor an eyewitness account.Page 64 : Comics : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Comics : Page 65

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Testimony from aBritish Participantin the Mobilizationagainst the CancelledWorld Bank Meeting inBarcelona, 2001“Another World is Possible”A Summit ProtestWithout A SummitDespite hangovers from the Sant Joan night festivities,there was something unusually empowering and positivein the procession down Paseo de Gracia and into PlacaCatalunya. The 40,000 strong crowd was a mass of jugglers,bands, flags, costumes, a co∞n (for capitalism, hopefully),a cardboard “TV camera for Africa,” and banners proclaimingeverything from “No World Bank” to “The revolutionis today” and, in massive letters right at the front, “Anotherworld is possible.” Small teams of masked individualsengaged in property damage as we progressed, and this escalateduntil the symbols of the old world were being thoroughlywrecked. The veneer of the legitimacy of businesswas destroyed with their signs, the pretence of the inevitabilityof capitalism shattered along with shop fronts, andeverywhere gra∞ti proclaimed the crimes of the old worldand our revolutionary alternatives. We should perhaps o≠erthanks to the police agents who, evidently fearing imminentrevolution, switched sides and helped smash things. As wearrived in Placa Catalunya, the atmosphere was relaxed yetconfident; we seemed to be in control of the massive squareand the surrounding area, and it felt as though, under thatblistering sun, we were winning.The illusion was very brief.“The choice is never between violence and nonviolence, butabout how and when to use violence. As long as there is a policeforce, nonviolence, as an absolute, is not an option.”The organizers had been determined that Sunday’sevents would pass o≠ without any trouble. They had appliedfor permits; when I asked at the convergence centerif they could suggest a lawyer, I was told it wasn’t necessaryas Sunday’s events were legal and there would be noarrests. We have to remember that the law is a device usedby the state to ensure the continuation of the existing socialorder. Sometimes we need to use legal devices to protectourselves against the law, but it is a mistake to rely on thelaw to protect us against the other devices of state control.This was beautifully illustrated in Placa Catalunya. Agentprovocateurs staged a scu±e in front of riot police 1 , and thisprovided an excuse for the police to attack the crowd withan extreme degree of force. Firing rubber bullets and wieldingbig sticks, they were able to clear the square in a matterof minutes. In every direction, people stampeded tryingto escape the violence: parents ran with terrified children,people dived into bars, others tried to erect barricades. Duringthis rout, the police were able to injure scores of people,including a tourist they apparently shot with a rubberbullet. We returned to Placa Catalunya and found it filledwith riot police. People were holding up bloodied clotheswhile others were being loaded into ambulances. The policelooked very satisfied with their work, but they really hadn’tdone anything to be proud of.We joined a group that was pressing against police linesat one entrance to the square. People raised their handsand went very close to the police to try and stop them fromfiring rubber bullets. In this way, they were able to push thelines back, while on the other side of the square the policecame under fire from bottles. This state of a≠airs was shortlived,however, and a fresh line of riot police turned up andstarted beating those at the front of the crowd. Some bravepeople sat down or lay down in front of the police, but theywere beaten until they had to move.After a while, we took a breather in a bar. One thing thatwas very strange compared to the UK was that even amidstpolice charges, Barcelona continued as normal: bars stayedopen, often with people sitting at tables outside. We decidedto head to Universitat, where an anarchist demonstrationhad been planned for four o’clock. On the way there, we meta comrade who told us that the gathering had been attackedwith great force and dispersed before the demonstration hadeven began. In light of this, we instead attended an open-airmeeting that was to discuss what had happened and whatto do next. The meeting, of perhaps a hundred people, tookplace in a confined space with no escape routes. We didn’tthink it was a good place to meet, given the police behavior,so we left and headed up to Universitat. We heard that thismeeting was attacked very violently after we had left, so weregret not making our concerns more vocal, although it isdi∞cult when you do not speak the language.1 According to one journalist, “Observers said the police appeared tostage the scu±e in order to use the fighting as a pretext to storm the park.The masked assailants, some apparently wearing earphones, had gatheredin groups on the fringes of the protest march as it arrived at the park. Theywere wearing knapsacks and carrying sticks, but were able to walk freelypast police, pull on their masks, and position themselves between the edgeof the crowd in the park and the police lines twenty-five yards away. Thefight began when one man grabbed another and pulled him to the ground.Others from the same group began kicking and hitting each other. Whendemonstrators saw what was going on and joined the fight, the policecharged into the park. The men and women involved in the original scu±ethen walked through the police line and boarded the vans.”Page 70 : Comics : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Comics : Page 71

The police spent the rest of the afternoon attacking anddispersing any sizeable gathering of people. During thedisturbances, properties damaged included Deutsche Bank,Banco De Santander, Caja Madrid, Halifax, Yanko, BBVA,Ibercaja, Cymbeline, Pronovias, Chanel, Armani, Caixa deTerrassa, Mango (two di≠erent ones), Marella, La Caixa,Banco Pastor, Banc Sabadell, Zara, Furest, Dunkin Donuts,Gonzalo, Comella, Burger King, and Swatch, among others.Unfortunately, there were scores injured and dozens arrested.In reflection, I think it is a mistake for anyone to organizea strictly legal, nonviolent event. That is certainly notto say that every action needs to kick o≠; rather, it is torecognize that no group can, or should, control what happensduring an action. The police may create an excuse toattack, as happened in Barcelona; likewise, a crowd mightspontaneously take the o≠ensive. Our revolution will bebuilt on passion, not obedience. In organizing a non-confrontationalaction, our concern should be that those whodo not want to be involved in a physical confrontation donot have to be, while others, should the need arise, are ableto defend themselves, other participants, and members ofthe public at large who are trapped in the area. In Barcelonaon Sunday, those who didn’t want to be involved in a physicalconfrontation were attacked by the police, while thosewho might have been prepared to defend themselves andothers were caught in an impossible situation—in a grid ofwide streets without bottles, sticks, stones, shields, masks,padding, and cobbles, without an organized confrontationalbloc committed to self-defense.“The liberal fantasy is that there could be some way to getpositive media coverage without the hassle of a demonstration.”Spanish police are inclined to use a degree of violence inpublic order situations exceeding that employed by policeforces in most wealthier countries. They really are a violentbunch. A surprising number of them resemble the guy fromthe Village People. More importantly, they are some of thestupidest individuals I have ever encountered; for example,their agents provocateurs openly fraternized with theiruniformed mates, and sometimes didn’t even manage toconceal their earpieces. It’s a miracle these clowns rememberedto take their badges o≠. Consequently, the press brokethe conspiracy of silence that had long surrounded theSpanish use of agent provocateurs, and pictured Barcelona’sfinest involved in various illegal acts.The police being exposed in the media as having startedthe trouble before attacking the crowd very violently is, ofcourse, every liberal’s dream. At some point on Sunday theleadership decided to cancel Monday’s action. It is possiblethat one of the reasons for this was that if we turned up preparedfor a physical confrontation and caused a lot of trouble,the police tactics of the day before would seem morejustified. Who needs direct action when you can get sympatheticpress coverage? One day activists will learn that wedo not need to convince people that the police are violentbastards because, believe it or not, the police don’t reservetheir violence for political activists. We need to demonstratethat we can do something to stop their violence, andcanceling our actions doesn’t help achieve that. Regardlessof the reasons, any decision to cancel the action should havebeen made collectively by all the participants in the action,not by a totally unaccountable group. It is alienating to beunable to participate in the decision-making process of anevent you are committed to participating in.“While there is a soul in prison, I am not free.”On Sunday night we were able to gather back in PlacaCatalunya. It was good to be able to regroup despite theevents of the afternoon, and the mood improved significantlyas first the samba band entered the square, followed bya sound system. As some danced around the sound system,others made their way to the jail where those arrested duringthe afternoon were being held. At about 11.30 pm, thesamba band began to lead people out of the square. It wasquite tense for a bit as there were only a few hundred of usand we were followed by swarms of police vans, but we leftthem behind by heading down into the metro station. Everystaircase and every landing was filled with people chanting,dancing, shouting, and clapping to the samba music thatechoed powerfully around the station. The security guardslooked bemused as we danced over the turnstiles, packingevery carriage on the train. It was very empowering. We goto≠ near the jail and joined those already outside. Loads offood and wine were available, thanks to a great organizationale≠ort. Some people tried to get a little sleep, whileothers continued to make noise, clapping, chanting, andplaying instruments. Hopefully this raised the spirits of ourimprisoned comrades.“Sometimes you can do too much listening; then you want toshout and scream until your voice is hoarse.”At 8.30 Monday morning, the helicopter that had circledrelentlessly on Sunday took to the air once more. At nineam, oblivious to the event’s cancellation, I turned up toUniversitat ready to take on the stock exchange. However,by 9.30, there were still only about a hundred people standingaround with banners and watched over by four vans ofriot police, so we headed into the convergence center wherethere was to be an assembly. This took an age to get startedand was then dominated by discussion about making legalclaims against the police and holding a press conference.You could see the frustration on the faces of many whowould rather have been participating in direct action thanlistening to the leadership discuss every agenda item exceptthe possibility of autonomous activity.Eventually, the question of a street action that day wasraised and received a very positive reception. In a little overan hour, there were about two thousand of us assembledoutside, including about one hundred of the best equippedwhite overalls 2 I’ve ever seen. Very slowly we progressed,led by the samba band, to the stock exchange. There was abit of a stando≠, but eventually we were able to surroundthe exchange, though our reduced numbers and the hugepresence of riot police made any attack on the buildingunwise. There was celebrating, dancing, and nudity. It wasa totally di≠erent situation from the previous day, and thiswas partly because this time we had come prepared forphysical confrontation. About this time, a small group brokeaway and we traveled some distance to a side street wherewe painted slogans against the police and for revolution.When we rejoined the carnival, people were dancing in afountain, spraying water over the crowd; it was a celebratoryatmosphere.The white overalls left us to remove their protection. Wehad seen a little glimpse of what the people on the streetwere capable of; it is impossible not to conclude that wewere held back by an uno∞cial leadership preoccupiedwith the media and the legal system. If our actions are notto be frustrated repeatedly by self-appointed leaders, wehave to work harder to challenge implicit power structures2 A sort of defense-oriented variant on the Black Bloc, consisting of acoordinated group equipped with shields and body armor.and demand that those in powerful positions—those withthe most resources, contacts, and time—respect the idealsand desires of the participants in events rather than, as hashappened too often, repressing and distorting the strugglesof thousands according to their personal reformist agendas.On a similar note, there were apparently many groupswho, objecting to the liberal ethos of the organizing group,dropped out of the weekend’s events. I think it would havebeen more constructive for those groups to have articulatedtheir objections and challenged the aspects of the organizingthat troubled them.The carnival, led by the samba band which was so inspirationalthroughout the actions, meandered through the centerof Barcelona and ended up by another building where prisonerswere being held. We waited on one side of the building,where banners hung describing the police as fascists anddemanding the release of the arrested. Gra∞ti was sprayed:“No World Bank,” “Police rob banks” (sic), and “Anotherworld is possible.” The actions were ending as positively asthey had began. On the other side of the building, hundredsawaited the release of those arrested on Sunday while othergroups set o≠ to embark on autonomous actions.Page 72 : Comics : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Comics : Page 73

Computer Security: IP AddressesIP AddressesSomewhere in this country right now there is an FBI branch oªce, and in this oªce is acluttered desk, and on this desk is an investigation manual, and in this manual is a chapterentitled “Investigating Political Crimes.” And the first thing this section says is “Track thecommuniqué.”Since perhaps the inception of direct action, militants have composed and released, by variousmeans, statements explaining their actions. These communiqués, which are of the utmostimportance to a campaign of “propaganda by the deed,” can be dangerous to the authors aswell as their opponents, and have often turned out to be fatal stumbling blocks in what mightotherwise have been ingeniously conceived and executed plans. The communiqué often servesas the first piece of evidence directly connecting the individuals involved to the crime underinvestigation. Because of this, the direct action enthusiast must be extremely cautious withcommuniqués, lest her words of inspiration to the masses become her downfall.The methods by which communiqués have been delivered have varied across the years.Perhaps the first one was carved into the body of a fallen crusader and catapulted over acastle wall. Who’s to say? Ever since, new technologies have provided new opportunities andnew risks for dissidents getting their message out. The internet is the most obvious moderninstance of this.The internet o¤ers many advantages to agents in the field (that is to say, our agents in thefield). Most obviously relevant are the internet’s capability of swiftly reaching a large numberof people and the sense of anonymity that it provides. It is this sense of anonymity that hascaused trouble for some. In this recipe I will explain why this sense of anonymity is littlemore than an illusion, and then go on to show how—like many illusions—it can be madereal with a little e¤ort.Each time you open a web browser and type in an address, you’re asking your computerto contact another computer and retrieve certain information. It’s like getting in a cab andsaying “Take me to Barthélemy’s Bar.” In order to get to the bar, the driver has to processthis information into something actually usable—such as an address, or an intersection.Your computer does the same thing: it translates the domain name you typed in into whatis known as an IP address. Every computer connected to the Internet has an IP address. AnIP Address is a set of four numbers ranging from 0 to 255 separated by decimal points: e.g.,64.128.0.14. Think of this like the street number attached to your house, or your telephonenumber. Unlike street addresses and phone numbers, though, your IP addresses can change,and in a typical setup will do so often.Every time you visit a web site, send out an email, or carry out some other task online, theIP Address your computer is using is logged. Even though this number might not be yournumber in the sense that your phone number is your number, it can still be traced to you. If,for example, you were using a dialup or broadband Internet account with someone’s nameattached to it, then the Internet Service Provider can determine whose account the addresswas attached to at the time you visited the site. Even if you use a publicly accessible computer,your activities can be traced.Let’s say, for example, an anarchist writes a communiqué on a computer at a public library.This library is a little less conservative than most these days and doesn’t require users to login with an ID or library card. So, the anarchist in question thinks she’s free and clear. She is,of course, mistaken. The first thing the Feds would do is find the IP Address of the computerthat sent the email, or posted the message on a message board or whatever (this is a trivialtask). Next, they would check publicly available records and find out that the IP Address isowned by the library in question. The Feds would then go to the library and ask their computertechnicians which library terminal was using the IP Address in question at the specifiedtime. With this information, the Feds would probably proceed to confiscate and fingerprintthe equipment, and check any video surveillance to determine who was using the terminalat the time. It may be that the Feds get nothing from this information, but did our anarchistreally need to take that risk?Luckily, there are better ways. One of these came with the advent and proliferationof wireless networks. They’re everywhere these days, in homes, cafes,corporate oªces, anywhere you can think of. Many of these networks are totallywide open for public use 1 .Using a wireless network o¤ers some strategic advantages to someone seekinganonymity online. First, because the user is not bound by wiring, they can bephysically distant from the actual internet connection. Right now, for example,this author is using a homemade antenna to steal covert internet access from aneighbor down the street. An additional benefit comes from the network architecturetypically used in a wireless network. Remember how I said an IP Addressconsists of four numbers ranging from 0 to 255? Well, this means that there area limited number of IP Addresses available. Considering that the internet is aworldwide resource, this number is actually relatively low. Because of this fact, asystem was developed whereby multiple computers could share one IP Address.For the record, this is known as Network Address Translation. A system set upwith NAT consists of a computer that has a real IP Address, known as the server,and a number of computers that have fake addresses, known as the clients (theseaddresses tend to be 10.x.x.x or 192.168.1.x with “x” being a number between 0and 255, but they need not be). The server receives requests for internet contentfrom the clients and then requests that information from the internet, when theinternet responds with the requested content, the server determines which clientasked for it, and then sends it to that computer. The important thing to note isthat any client under such a system has no unique IP Address, and most wirelessnetworks use this kind of setup!So, let’s revise our example above. This time the anarchist uses a laptop to accessan unprotected wireless network made available by a public library. In orderto avoid suspicion and detection she accesses the network from a bench in thepublic park next to the library, well out of sight of the surveillance cameras. Whenthe Feds get wind of it, they will, once again, be able to trace the communicationsto the library. This time, however, the library’s computer technicians won’t be ableto tell the feds much because they have a publicly available wireless network, andthe feds will gain little from surveillance footage. Quite an improvement!Alas, this second scenario is still not good enough. That is because of a nefariouslittle piece of information known as the Media Access Controller Address, orMAC Address. The MAC Address—sometimes referred to as the Network Addressor Physical Address—is a number that is intended to uniquely identify the pieceof hardware you are using to connect to a network. If an IP Address were thelicense plates on a car, then the MAC Address would be the VIN number 2 . Everypiece of network hardware, including your wireless adapter, has a MAC address,and unlike an IP Address, this unique identifier is passed on and recorded evenacross a network using NAT. Luckily, it is nearly impossible to track a known MACAddress to the person that owns that piece of hardware. It is possible, however,for an investigator to compare a known MAC Address to the MAC Address onany Network Interface Cards a suspect might own.So, in the example I just gave, our anarchist may not get o¤ altogether. Sincethe author of the communiqué made no e¤ort to conceal her MAC Address, thefeds will learn it. Let’s say our protagonist lives in a relatively small town, and isknown to belong to a small community of anarchists there. Our anarchist maycome under suspicion for the actions claimed in the communiqué just by virtue ofalready being on the law enforcement’s radar. If this is the case, the investigatorsare likely to confiscate this person’s computer and compare the MAC Address tothe one used to issue the communiqué. When they find that the two match, ourfriend could be in serious trouble. All is not lost though: with a bit of knowledgeand practice, one can learn to hide one’s MAC Address.1 Those that are password protectedare usually very easy to break into. Iencourage the reader to explore softwareprograms such as Airsnort and Kismetfor detecting and gaining access to hiddenand protected networks.Pro Tip: When writing a communiqué,be aware that law enforcementagencies have various methods attheir disposal for analyzing writing.They can, for example, take somethingknown to have been written bya suspect and linguistically compareit to a communiqué to determinewhether the language matches.It may, therefore, be advisable toattempt to vary the writing style youuse in a communiqué from the styleyou use normally.MAC Addresses2 The Vehicle Identification Number,which is more subtly and indeliblymarked into the car.Page 74 : Recipes For Disaster : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Recipes For Disaster : Page 75

figure 1figure 2figure 3figure 4Hiding your MAC Address inWindows XP3 If you are unsure of the make/mode of your wirelesscard, right click on the “My Network Places” iconthat is either on the desktop or in the start menu. Clickproperties. A window will pop up with several icons. Oneof them should say something like “wireless networkconnection.” Right-click this icon and click on properties.Under the “General” tab click the “Configure” button.Some information on your card should appear.The process for changing your MAC Address in Windows is relativelystraightforward, but first-timers and/or those intimidated by computers mayfind it baºing at first. I urge you, dear reader, to look over these step-by-stepinstructions and the accompanying diagrams several times. After you thinkyou understand them, be sure to practice a fewtimes before you need to do this in a “real-world”situation.Step 1: To give you a feel of what we’re going to do,go to Start-> Programs-> Accessories-> CommandPrompt. A box with some text and a blinking cursorshould come up. Type this command: ipconfig/all. You get a bunch of information regarding yournetwork connections. Somewhere in this informationwill be a line that reads “Physical Address...” (seefigure 1). This is your current MAC Address—write itdown for reference. It will be a series of 6 numbersrepresented in hexadecimal format (this means thata digit can be 0 through 9 or a through f—a throughf represent 10 through 15). Our goal is to replacethese numbers with di¤erent ones. In order to dothis, we need to edit the registry.Step 2: The registry is a repository of data that is used by the operatingsystem. Typically the user needn’t worry about it at all. In Windows we canedit this data by using the regedit program. Click Start-> Run. A text boxwill pop up; type “regedit” (figure 2) and hit OK. The registry program willopen (figure 3).Step 3: Look at figure 3. On the left side of the window, you will see variousexpandable folders. These work just like the file browser included in windows.Folders open up to new folders in an expandable tree. The di¤erenceis that these folders contain di¤erent keys, and each key containsdi¤erent data.The data we want to change can be found in the key located at:[HKEY_LOCAL_MACHINE\SYSTEM\ ControlSet001\Control\Class\{4D36E972-E325-11CE-BFC1-08002bE10318}]. To get there,click on the little plus sign next to “HKEY_LOCAL_MACHINE,”then the one next to, “SYSTEM,” and so on until you find the{4D36E972-E325-11CE-BFC1-08002bE10318} folder. Click on theplus next to this folder and you will see a number of subfolders that run insequential order. When you are done with this step, the tree on the left sideof the regedit window should look something like figure 4.Step 4: Each of these folders represents a di¤erent network device. Inorder to determine which one correlates to the network card you want tochange the MAC address on, you will have to click on each one. After youclick on each of these subfolders, examine the data that appears in thebox on the right. You should find some lines with descriptive informationsuch as the manufacturer’s name. Usually you can find manufacturer andmodel information printed on your card 3 . Continue looking through thesub-folders until you find a match. On my computer, under folder 0016I find a string entitled “ProviderName” and its corresponding value is“Lucent Technologies”; there’s another string called “VendorDescription”and its value is “ORiNOCO PC Card (5 volt).” These clues tell me that thisfolder is for my Lucent Technologies Wavelan PC card which is based on anORiNOCO microchip.Step 5: When you have found a match, look in the window on the rightunder the “name” column for a string called “NetworkAddress.” If none exists,you will have to create it. Right-Click in the box on the right and clickNew-> String Value. Name this string “NetworkAddress.” (figure 5)Step 6: Now, all you have to do is give “NetworkAddress”a value, or alter the value alreadythere. Double click on “NetworkAddress” and in thevalue field enter a string of 12 characters rangingfrom 0 to 9 and a through f—e.g., 022CDEAD4e2c.(figures 6 and 7)Step 7: Close the regedit program and restartyour computer.Step 8: Let’s see if this worked. Open a commandprompt (Start-> Programs-> Accessories-> CommandPrompt) and type ipconfig /all. You shouldsee that the fake MAC Address you provided isdisplayed. (figure 8)Step 9: If your MAC Address did not change, orif your internet connection ceases to work, you mayhave provided an invalid MAC address. Anotherpossibility is that there is more than one entry in the registry for your wirelesscard; look through the subfolders under [HKEY_LOCAL_MACHINE\SYSTEM\ControlSet001\Control\Class\{4D36E972-E325-11CE-BFC1-08002bE10318}]again and see if there’s another folder that describes your card. In eithercase, repeat steps 2 through 8. Once you see that your “Physical Address”has changed by issuing the ipconfig /all command in the command prompt,you are done.Step 10: Send your communiqué, or do whatever it is you don’t wantthe feds to know about. Whatever sketchy thing it is you are doing, makesure that is the only thing you do with your fake address. If you check youremail, myspace account, chat rooms, message boards, or any other placeyou normally frequent on the web, the Man might be able to link your fakeaddress to you.Step 11: Repeat steps 2 through 9 to change your MAC Address again.For anyone using the Linux operating system 4 , the process of changingMAC Addresses is fairly simple. I am going to assume that the reader alreadyhas a running Linux machine with a functioning wireless adapter. If this isnot the case, there are numerous resources online that can help in this regard.Please note, that some of these steps may vary slightly given di¤erent Linuxdistributions and wireless cards 5 .Step 1. Open a terminal. This process will be di¤erentfor all distributions of Linux. Most Linux distributionsnow default to a graphical user interface that includes adesktop, icons, and other doodads. Typically there will besome sort of application menu. If you can find this, lookfor terminal, xterm, konsole, or something of the sort. Ifall else fails, consult the website of the distribution youare using. Once you have a terminal open, log in as root.This can be accomplished by issuing the su command andentering the root password when prompted.Step 2: Type the iwconfig command in the terminalwindow and hit enter. You will see various informationregarding your wireless device and any network it may beconnected to (see figure 9). Note the name of the device on the left side. Inmy case, my wireless device is named “eth1”; this may vary depending onyour setup.Step 3: Now type ifconfig (where is thename we found in the last step) and hit enter. Ifconfig will display a varietyof network information (see figure 10), but what we are worried about is theHiding Your MAC Address in LINUXThis process may be somewhat similar on Macintoshsystems running OS X. I have not includeda section for Macs however, as I do not own amachine to test on. Mac users should be able tofind similar tutorials online.4 The author would like to take this time to stronglyendorse the use of Linux over Windows. This articleis proof of how much easier it is to do some tasks inLinux than in Windows. Plus, it’s free! I won’t evenget into what a good thing open-source is.5 The author is using the Sarge release of DebianLinux and a Lucent Wavelan Gold PC card.figure 5figure 6figure 7figure 8Page 76 : Recipes For Disaster : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Recipes For Disaster : Page 77

figure 9figure 10figure 11figure 12string that follows “HWaddr”: this is the device’s MAC Address.Write this down for reference.Step 4: Turn o¤ your wireless adapter. This is typicallydone by issuing the ifdown command (seefigure 11).Step 5: Change your MAC Address by issuing the followingcommand: ifconfig hw ether xx:xx:xx:xx:xx:xx where each x is a digit from 0 to 9 or a to f (seefigure 11).Step 6: Turn on your wireless adapter. This is typicallydone by issuing the ifup command (seefigure 11).Step 7: Check your work. Issue the ifconfig command again. You should see that the MAC Address haschanged (see figure 12). If this is not the case, or if your internetconnection stops working, you may have entered an invalidMAC Address. Repeat steps 4 through 7 until it works.Step 8: Send your communiqué or do whatever you want,But remember, whatever it is you want to do anonymouslyonline, do only this. If you check your email, or do anythingelse you would normally do online, law enforcement agentsmight be able to determine it was you using the fake address.Step 9: Change your MAC Address again by repeatingsteps 4 through 7.With a bit of luck, some e¤ort, and perhaps a little help,you should be able to get the above instructions to worksatisfactorily. If the precautions I have mentioned are taken,the likelihood of the government being able to pin you toyour online activities is very low. For an example, let’s lookback upon our fictional anarchist.Let us imagine that our anarchist used the wireless networkfrom the park just as before. This time, however, she read thisarticle, and having done so, forged her MAC Address beforewriting the communiqué. After she was done she changed itback. The FBI hu¤ed and pu¤ed all over town. They draggedin our anarchist and all her friends. They interrogated themup and down, but no one snitched. Upset by this show ofsolidarity, the agents seized our anarchist’s computer andthose of her comrades. Unfortunately for the state, none ofthe MAC Addresses matched. Finally, the Bureau left townwith its tail between its leg, and our anarchist was—at longlast—free to plan another . . . IMPACT!Going to CollegeColleges and universities perform a vital role in maintaining a societybased on exploitation and hierarchy. Public universities take tax money froma state’s base of poor people and use it to pay for extravagant educationalresources for a small, much wealthier minority. Private universities usemoney exploited from working people by wealthy capitalists, who, througha process called “philanthropy,” funnel it to an even more exclusive minorityof people, who in turn are trained to rule and maintain the current systemof exploitation. These institutions research and develop ever more eªcientways to make war, destroy ecosystems, and maximize profits, channelingpeople into those industries and infecting graduates with their ideologies.The problems created by this system present a new niche for colleges to fillby training idealistic young people to make careers out of addressing them inisolated and piecemeal ways. Universities also specialize in the specializationof knowledge, creating obscure academic jargon to increase dependence on“experts” in everything from economics to medicine to “political science 1 .”At the same time, these institutions o¤er little more than poverty wages andmiserable conditions to the janitors, kitchen workers, and groundskeepers whokeep them running, sustaining the legacy of colonial relationships betweenwealthy institutions and the surrounding occupied territory.Clearly, anarchists should attack universities on every front. The goodnews is that some of these attacks can be rewarding. The glut of resourcescan provide a clever trouble-maker like you with the tools to undertakenearly anything, whether or not you look like a twenty-something collegestudent. Colleges won’t sell you the rope by which to hang them—they’ll giveit to you! Here follows an abridged compilation of tips, tricks, secrets, andentry points into the wonderful world of college scams. If there is a collegeor university near you, don’t hesitate to dive into the delights of free food,computers, entertainment, funding, and whatever else you can find. Exploitthe exploiters!Free food is one of the key attractions of your standard college campus. The bestspots are the cafeterias, which are usually readily scammable. For all-you-caneatcafeterias, students usually have a card to swipe with a certain number ofmeals programmed into it. If you stand by the cafeteria entrance and inquireas to whether anyone has a meal to share, many college kids—whose guardianshave taken care to prevent them from ever interacting with poor peopleapart from those in service roles—will be surprised enough to swipe you in.Watch out for managers, who may hassle you—you can usually recognizethem by their ties and stern looks; in some places, they’re the only whiteemployees. If generosity is not forthcoming, it’s often easy to sneak in—tryrunning up a down escalator, taking a service elevator or side stairwell, orentering through the exit 2 . Wear a backpack, explore, and if someone hasslesyou look confused and say you’re trying to find a bathroom. You can oftenexpect sympathy from employees, who generally hate their bosses and don’tcare much for students either. Many workers won’t care if you steal or sneakin so long as their bosses aren’t looking—they might even assist you.Once inside, don’t hold back. With a good backpack full of tupperwareand smaller bags, you can do your or others’ grocery shopping for a fullweek. Keep an eye out for industrial-size food containers, if you’re ready togo pro—they may be in closets or even more accessible locations 3 . Here’sanother tip: if you find yourself inside without a bag and you have access to arest room, check under the trashbags in use in the trash cans or paper towel1 If a science is a field in which objectiveobservation can yield truths, it seems an empiricalstudy of politics would lead any unbiasedobserver to conclude that every political systembased on centralized government by an elite isultimately destructive to human life and happinessas well as ecological stability. Instead,“political science” involves teaching an elitegroup that elites are necessary—and how to conthe rest of us into believing it, too.Food2 At one college, the cafeteria was on thesecond floor but included a balcony that lookedout over a foyer on the first floor. Unbelievably,one could access the cafeteria by climbing upto the balcony from the foyer, in full view ofeveryone coming in and out of the building andthe students already seated above—who wouldoften cheer and clap for climbers who hadhoped to avoid attracting attention.3 Another heroic tale from your editor: at onecollege cafeteria, the managers had the daft ideaof decorating the salad bar with multi-gallon tinsof peppers, onions, and like. Those all disappearedone evening, some to stock the localFood Not Bombs pantry and others to be tradedto an independent burrito shop in return for alifetime subscription to their leftovers.Page 78 : Recipes For Disaster : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Recipes For Disaster : Page 79

eceptacles there—often workers will save themselves trouble by stashingextra bags under the ones in use.Events on campus frequently include free food, especially towards thebeginning of the semester when organizations are recruiting. Ten minutesof Campus Crusade for Christ may be worth it for the three pizzas you walkout with afterwards. You can also look for weekly discussion groups, fancypublic speaking events, and large department or organization dinners thatadvertise free food. Some colleges even send out email lists compiled bystudent activities oªces or individual students announcing all the free foodevents on campus.Often students are permitted to check out equipment of various kinds on ause-by-use basis. If you can befriend a student, you may thus be able to getaccess to sports gear, projectors with which to show movies to the public (androoms in which to do so), and even more far-fetched items such as musicalinstruments, amplification systems, and camping equipment. Teachers oftenhave access to yet more resources. It might not be impossible to impersonateone just long enough to obtain something for a deserving community groupthat lacks state funding; be sure to clean the item up beyond recognition onceyou’ve got it. Alternately, it might suªce to learn where the administrationkeeps all this stu¤, and how well-guarded it is.To maximize your printing ease, find a labor time of day free from supervision.Educational OpportunitiesClassesBy auditing classes, you can learn alanguage, study transnational feminismthrough film, or learn aboutthe history and practice of creatingfree schools for kids!LibrariesYou don’t need to pay tuition or be authorizedby a professor to learn aboutany subject that interests you!Funneling Money and OtherResources out of the Ivory TowerComputers and Printing4 The entire two-hundred-page reunion issue ofthe ’zine Inside Front, which was in some ways aprecursor to Rolling Thunder, was designed withpirated software on library computers.Most colleges o¤er a tremendous number of classes every semester or quarter—andit would be silly if they were just for students! Often you can sit inon (or “audit”) classes without having to enroll or pay money to the university.Start by scanning the college website for the course catalogue and browsingby subject to find things that interest you. Many professors are more thanhappy to have someone who actually cares about learning sit in, and if youask them on the first day of class or email them in advance, you can oftensecure a spot. In huge survey classes of a hundred or more students, youprobably won’t even need permission—just hang out in the back, and try torestrain yourself from throwing spitballs.Perhaps the resource most unique to colleges is their phenomenal libraries.At many, non-students can get cheap library cards that o¤er access to millionsof books and other resources. Even if you can’t get a card, the extendedhours and comfortable seating make libraries ideal for hanging out workingon projects all day. Take the time to look into all the di¤erent libraries in auniversity’s system and what each o¤ers—often there are music libraries withthousands of CDs, records, and printed music collections; huge selections ofUS and international newspapers, journals, and magazines on every topic;map libraries with local topographical and train maps; “media resource”centers with thousands of videos and DVDs; and even children’s book collections!Many libraries stay open up to twenty-four hours a day, but somecheck student IDs during nighttime hours to keep out the ri¤ra¤.Computers and printing comprise another major asset of college librariesand universities in general. Most large libraries or student unions includesome public computers with internet access that do not require passwords.For printing, you might need a student ID and password; you can eithermake friends with a student, ask someone to sign you in, or wait in a lab untilsomeone leaves without logging out of the computer. Often you can printpractically limitless quantities of material—but watch out for meddlesomecomputer lab employees. You should be able to find computers with mostany program you need to use 4 , and even free scanners.Photocopies can be tough to get for free. You might be able to arrangethis through a connection to a student organization; alternately, you couldjust use the scanners and free printing. One private college hosts a legendary“student appreciation week” at the end of each semester, during which eightfree, unsupervised photocopiers are made available to anyone who can getto the student union for seven glorious days. People have sustained entireliterature distributions through judicious use of college resources, withoutever spending a penny.Liberal student groups tend to attract young idealists with a fervent desire toget involved in meaningful projects; more often than not, those same groupsend up disillusioning them permanently with ine¤ective and alienatingbrands of so-called activism. This tragedy can be averted through infiltration,outreach, and shameless recruiting: fliering for unpermitted marches at themeeting of an anti-war group, for example, or chatting about clinic defensewith liberal feminists after a film screening, or tabling with anti-civilization’zines at an Earth Day rally. Such e¤orts can broaden perspectives and savewell-meaning students from apathy and liberal ineªciency.Campus campaigns most frequently occur in reaction to specific outrages,such as a gaybashing, a sexual assault, or the firing of a popular worker forattempting to organize a union. Suddenly appearing, these campaigns sparkan immediate firestorm, burn with ferocious energy for a short time, thenblink out around exam time. With radical allies among students, workers,and professors, anarchists in the community can provide valuable supportto meaningful campaigns, especially in times of low student energy, andradicalize others in the process.When the inertia of college activism seems to overwhelm the potentialfor radical activity, remember that student groups frequently have access toresources that can easily be funneled into more fulfilling, community-drivenprojects. Student organizations can easily extend their opportunities to otherlocal groups: some literature distributors have flourished because studentgroups have donated stacks of zines and even whole books provided by theunlimited photocopying at their schools, while other groups have sharedtheir access to free long-distance phone calls and conference calls to facilitateorganizing across state lines. Colleges can provide a wide variety of practicaland logistical resources: space in classrooms and auditoriums to hold meetings,shows, and performances; access to large vans or buses for travelingto conferences and protests; all the supplies required to set up independentworkshops for community members on silkscreening, bike repair, and anythingelse you can think of; and, of course, money itself! Student organizationsusually receive a budget, and they can request funding to pay for supplies orbring in speakers. Student groups are constantly paying exorbitant quantitiesof money to bring organizations and individuals to their college to speakon issues, facilitate workshops, show movies, or give performances—andyou don’t have to have a fancy website or a manager to qualify. If you’re nota student, you can o¤er to be a speaker or guest performer and donate themoney you receive to local projects.Students usually have healthcare plans covering many services for free or ata low cost. If you can befriend a student and borrow his or her ID, or obtaina student ID number 5 , you too can attain access to services from gynecologyand counseling to physical therapy and prescription drugs. Because most collegesget funding for sex education programs, condoms, lube, dental dams,and all sorts of safe-sex supplies and information can be acquired on mostcampuses in endless supply: check the student health building or studentStudent Organizations and ActivismStudent groups organized around particularethnicities, sexualities, or obscureinterests can help anarchists find otherpeople who share mutual interests andidentities—whether you are South Asian,transgendered, a Dungeons and Dragonsenthusiast, or all of the above!Many universities, when issuing individualslarge sums of money through a studentorganization, will request a social securitynumber for tax information. You caneither cash the check and then not givethat information—which can be a felonyand is not always an option—or have folkswho don’t make much money or don’t filetaxes receive the money.Health Care5 We’ll leave it up to our entrepreneuring readersto figure out how to do so—although we’veheard that some people will tell you anythingwhen you’re doing a survey.Page 80 : Recipes For Disaster : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Recipes For Disaster : Page 81

HousingEntertainment6 See “Pie Throwing” in Recipes for Disaster,another CrimethInc. publication.Making the GradeExtra Creditcenter. STI testing is also available on many campuses. Some colleges o¤erconfidential testing, and because ID can’t be required for these tests, anyonewho knows where to go—which can usually be ascertained by means of theinternet—can get tested. Additionally, at universities with medical or dentalschools, cheap or free medical services can be obtained from students in needof practice patients. Schools often o¤er free teeth-cleaning and x-rays, whilemore intensive procedures and surgeries cost a minimal amount.Similarly, many college campuses with medical schools or large medicalresearch departments carry out medical studies which can be both lucrativeand informative. For instance, at many universities across the country, thereis a herpes vaccine study in which the first round of testing simply requiresone to fill out some paperwork and get tested for herpes. That’s a free STItest that you get paid for! All kinds of other testing can be found—much ofwhich involves exposure to sinister drugs—advertised on department websitesor on fliers around student unions and university bathrooms.Most on-campus residences are dormitories; these are usually full of collegestudents, and thus make inhospitable living environments. However, on somecampuses, buildings not labeled for housing feature empty unlocked roomsor even whole floors of unused rooms perfect for squatting. It’s di¤erent inevery place: building doors lock at di¤erent times, housecleaning sta¤ makedi¤erent rounds . . . but if you can squat your own oªce (see the first issueof Rolling Thunder), you can surely squat someone else’s college.Colleges work hard to keep their students entertained so as to perpetuate theillusion that life in the college bubble is interesting and sophisticated. Moviescreenings are common, and often either free or require a borrowed or copiedstudent ID. Drama troupes stage plays throughout the year—one can generallyget in free by impersonating a drama student or volunteering to usherin return for a ticket. Dance performances, concerts, cultural festivals, andmore take place all the time and are often free or easy to sneak into. Collegeradio stations often have massive CD and record collections, which can beburned or taped to your heart’s content if you can get into the studio. Theyalso give away concert tickets all the time, in predictable patterns—listen bya phone in the late afternoons.Also, all kinds of assholes give lectures and workshops on every subjectimaginable, and these events can be interesting opportunities to learn orto hone your pie-throwing aim—but that’s a whole di¤erent recipe 6 ! Lookon the internet for event listings and calendars, and find spots on campuswhere flyers are posted.These are just a few of the innumerable ways we’ve found to squeeze resourcesout of these bloated institutions. Student allies can provide insightsyou might never find on your own, so make friends and ask. Depending onthe homogeneity of the student body, you may find it fairly easy or completelyimpossible to blend in; if you wear a backpack and smile, people may lookat you funny but will rarely ever directly interfere with your scam-o-rama.Find loopholes, dissatisfied employees, accessible rooftops, secret hideouts,and other mischievous means of harvesting the bountiful cornucopia of theuniversity.• Take a stroll through buildings on campus. Often, stacks of discardedbooks, errant chairs and furniture, dry erase boards and markers, extensioncords, and other odds and ends are stashed in hallways and stairwells, waitingfor loving homes. New rolls of toilet paper can be found in most bathrooms.Light bulbs, oªce supplies, projectors… the list is endless.• Most campuses have courtesy phones scattered throughout campus,especially in student centers and libraries, which often o¤er free calls to alllocal numbers. Try dialing a “9” before the number if at first you don’t succeed.Such phones are perfect for contacting your comrades in illegal activitywithout leaving your enemies any record of who talks to whom. (Don’t speakabout said activity on the phone, of course—just call your friend and expressthat you’d like to meet somewhere.)• Art departments often have darkrooms, screenprinting materials, andother excellent resources available to art students and anyone else who canget at them. Some art buildings are accessible twenty-four hours a day forthose late-night bursts of artistic inspiration.• Most colleges o¤er exercise facilities ranging from soccer fields—weeklycommunity soccer!—to gyms that can be accessed by means of a borrowedID or a clever move. Likewise, most campuses have an indoor or outdoorswimming pool, or both.• If you’re looking for a target for some community-minded direct action,you rarely need look further than the nearest college. Most campuses featureNational Guard oªces or buildings, and many also have vivisectionists andother ne’er-do-wells working on the premises. College campuses usuallyhave their own police, but ironically this sometimes makes them safer areas.During the FTAA ministerial in Miami, when the entire city was infestedwith riot police, the campus of the University of Miami was as placid asever—hence the massive amounts of wheatpasting and stickering that tookplace there that week.• At the end of every school year, when thousands of students move out oftheir dormitory rooms, a week-long dumpster bonanza opens up with literallyinconceivable bounty bestowed upon all wise enough to partake. Findout where the dorms are, especially those populated by first-year studentsor athletes, learn when exam week takes place, borrow a pickup truck if youcan, and go to town! Rugs, plastic furniture, packaged food, futons, small appliances,clothes, and books are especially common. We know a communityorganization that nets about $400 every year by having a yard sale with theirpost-semester dumpster finds. At the end of the year, abandoned bikes can alsobe found in abundance across college campuses and can come home with youfor the cost of a pair of bolt cutters. All these resources can be redistributedto the community at large at the next Really Really Free Market.Some years ago, I myself was an accursed college student, sleepwalkingthrough my daily routine—or sleeping through it—unfulfilled by my classesand uncertain of the necessity of it all. Nighttime found me alive and active,invested in my friends and projects, but still I questioned my place at thatschool… until I discovered the college scam. Slowly, I began to see all of thetreasures I could sneak out of that blind behemoth of an institution, all of theways I could steal and cheat my heart back and root it in the people aroundme. I delved into all the secret sources: I found the dresser full of light bulbsin the student center, the janitorial closet full of tools in the science building,and the empty math department whose oªce supply cabinet never couldstay locked. I learned to find all the access points to hidden resources, howto secure the supplies and money to drive the projects that were actuallymaking things happen.I was a part of two or three or sometimes four student groups that appliedfor money from the school; one of the groups was actually defunct, but servedAccountPage 82 : Recipes For Disaster : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Recipes For Disaster : Page 83

as a front to ask for more money. Every semester we would get together overa potluck or in the park and dream up the most fantastic, amazing thingswe could do, then figure out how to ask the university for funding in sucha way that they would comply 7 . We helped fund our friends’ punk bands,puppet shows, and health collectives, inviting them to perform at the schoolor give workshops there while on tour. We also funneled resources intoour own local infrastructure. We started small, accumulating all kinds oftools—silkscreens, paint, knitting and sewing supplies, bike tools, buildingtools, speculums and more—by staging workshops to justify these needs.We learned the slick language, describing events as drug- and alcohol-freeentertainment or highlighting the ways we were working with other groups.We started a literature distribution, got hundreds of dollars from the schoolto buy books, and gave them away or sold them at minimal prices. We built arapport with the money-givers, and had the newspapers report on our eventsto add to the charade. We asked for more money to get materials and bringin local “celebrities”—and the school gave us more.At my school, the system for getting money was complex. Student organizationswrote their requests for all kinds of programming months in advance.Then, interviews were held by some council to determine how much moneywas to be allotted; we always asked for twice as much as we wanted and gotalmost as much as we needed. All of this money was itemized, broken downinto speaker fees, travel expenses, this much for paint, this much for buildingsupplies, this much for fabric, and receipts were expected for everything. Thenat the end of the year, each organization was audited, and all the money thathadn’t been used was returned. It was a bureaucratic clusterfuck. There wereforms and paperwork and signatures required. I learned to be the treasurer;I knew all the players, had a sweet smile for each of them, and somehow weskipped audit after audit. Every semester there was extra money, pleasantlyunaccounted for, building a little mountain in our bank account.All the while, a new community space-infoshop-amazing collective projectwas coming together just beyond the reach of the school. We were paintingand building, learning and teaching, working with all of our friends to set upand use the tools and supplies we had acquired. We turned the distributioninto a library. We had shows, poetry readings, and community meals—webuilt up momentum. The plans were laid and the potential created. Finally,I knew what I was doing there, and by the time I left the school, we hadthousands of dollars set aside to sustain the new space.United States of America V. John Tsombikos(Found in a computing dictionary:)BORF: To unceremoniously disconnect someone from a system without prior warning7 This is not to insinuate that all the fantastic,amazing things we wanted to do requiredmoney. Many things look di¤erent with accessto money; I want to pursue all the options availableto me and develop my abilities to makewonderful things happen in any context.Page 84 : Recipes For Disaster : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Art : Page 85

Throughout 2004 and 2005, BORF entered the public consciousnessas a sort of illegal, inscrutable publicity campaign. In addition tobeing virtually omnipresent in the Washington, D.C. area, BORFgraªti was sighted throughout New York City, North Carolina,Florida, Indiana, San Francisco, and even Greece. The name andassociated face appeared in a myriad of forms: life-size BORF“soldiers,” traditional graªti pieces, twenty-foot-tall letters paintrolleredonto seemingly inaccessible walls, smiling eyes staring downfrom interstate signs above six lanes of speeding traªc, imagesstickered, wheatpasted and stenciled on every imaginable surface.BORF received coverage in independent and corporate mediaincluding the Washington Post and the Raleigh News and Observer.The images and enigmatic messages, not to mention the feats ofbravado by which they were presented to the public, were discussedfar outside the usual circles of graªti aficionados. Was BORF an antigentrificationo¤ensive? A secret cult? An elaborate surrealist prank?After an investigation spanning over a year, the DCmetropolitan police finally made an arrest in the BORF case 1 . Shortlythereafter, Rolling Thunder conducted a series of interviews with thedefendant to gain some insight into the BORF legend.Can you start by telling us who you are?My name is John Tsombikos. I was arrestedfor BORF graªti last July and I wasa close friend of BORF, Bobby Fisher.Can you describe who and what BORF actuallyis?BORF was a friend of mine, BobbyFisher, who killed himself in October 2003when we were sixteen. Then it turned intoa graªti campaign, which consisted of meand some of his other close friends andacquaintances putting up his face and thename BORF wherever we went and onanything. I guess it’s kind of a campaignfor us to deal with his death and to damagethings we identify as contributing to ourmisery and loneliness. It also serves as atool for communication. It’s a nod or winkto all the other kids that feel as worthlessas we do because of the way our consumersociety is set up, and all the ways corporate1 As reported by the spoilsports: “Fairfax CountyPolice Oªcer Gail Fernbacher was recognized witha certificate of appreciation by the U.S. Attorney’sOªce at the 26 th annual Law Enforcement AwardsCeremony May 12 in Washington, D.C. Fernbacherreceived the award for her e¤orts to bring the notorious“BORF” graªti artist to justice. Fernbachergathered evidence against John Tsombikos forfelony destruction of property after investigatinggraªti in July 2004.” Surely Fernbacher has an addressat which she can receive congratulations.America takes what we make and sells itback to us in fragments of what it originallywas. And to communicate that destroyingproperty can be a lot more fun thandestroying yourself or the people aroundyou. As Raoul Vaneigem says, “We’ve gota world to win . . . and nothing to lose butour boredom!”How did this manifest itself as a graªti-basedproject? Was graªti something Bobby wasinto as well?Back in the day, when we were in middleschool we would spend weekend nightswalking around the suburbs where we livedvandalizing places, tipping over portapotties,TPing trees, egging cars, or justthrowing any combination of gross stu¤ atcars and running away. So this delinquentmentality had been prevalent—but, also,the graªti came out of frustration withother ways of trying to be heard. When Iwas in my junior year of high school, theday after he died, I started this studentclub at school called Responsible Individualsof Tomorrow, R.I.O.T. and we tried toorganize around how our 4 th amendmentrights, protection from illegal search andseizure, were being violated at school. Thecars we parked in the spaces we boughtfor the year were subject to search andseizure without probable cause. We triedto organize kids around that, but nothingever came of it because of the bureaucracyin the school system and all the, you know,compartmentalizing of resistance or whatever,and how they have all these thingsset up to make it really hard to make anychange… so I figured instead of screamingat a wall, why not vandalize it?So this started out of a sense of frustration andcontinued to grow. Would you say it startedwith raw frustration, anger, and sadness andthen grew into something more intentionaland specific?For sure. At first I was just doing itbecause it made me feel better, but now Ithink our motives have been establishedand for the most part, we know what wewant. Now we’re not limiting ourselves tograªti because basically, the court systemand my legal situation are forcing us tomove on to something bigger. For a while,I got caught up in the graªti aspect of it,got caught up in stupid graªti beef herein DC. There were times when I’d go onthe Red Line [of the metro, the local publictransit system] to paint something and I’dhave to carry a nightstick to protect myselffrom other writers who were painting overmy stu¤ and trying to kick my ass… I thinkthe graªti was mostly just cathartic, thesame thing as when you’re angry and youbreak some dishes or whatever, but insteadI was taking it out on property owners inthe belly of the beast.So the project began in October 2003? Whenwas it that BORF started to appear moreprominently around DC, and when did thepublic start reacting to it?I don’t know about the other kids thatwrite BORF, but when I started getting up,that was probably near the beginning of2004, when it all started setting in—like merealizing that Bobby’s death was somethingreal, that he wasn’t coming back, and lookingto my surroundings and seeing whatthe cause of that was. Because our societyputs all this emphasis on the individual,it’s the responsibility of individuals toaddress their issues and it doesn’t dealwith the environmental, or circumstantial,reasons for them having these emotionalproblems or depression issues or whatever.It’s the same in disability studies. Peoplewith disabilities are pressured to overcomethem because they’re seen as undesirable;there’s a stigma attached to them. So insteadof people asking for societal change,like putting in ramps for wheelchairs forexample, people are expected to learnhow to lift their wheelchairs and hop overcurbs and stu¤, and the same is evident inpsychology and how we feel—we have toovercome how drab our cities are and howbored we feel in the suburbs, you know,so I just looked around and tried to seewhat needed some changing, aestheticallyat the very least.What kinds of reactions did you see frompeople?Everything on the spectrum from randompeople chasing me down the streetto try and catch me to people seeing meput up a sticker and striking up a conversationabout why I was doing that andhow much they supported it. Some askedme for copies of whatever I was puttingup. And then there were internet debateswhere yuppies and others of that sortwould complain about this kid or groupof kids that was vandalizing their so-called“community.”You spoke of alienation and I think that’sinteresting, as far as the reactions you received…I remember reading on the internetabout people I might describe as yuppies whowere commuting to work, whether it be thePentagon or their law oªces or whatever, whoseemed to really connect with BORF graªtiand felt it really livened up their commute,that it took them—for a few seconds—outof the drudgery of the everyday. Did you geta lot of reactions like that from people youwouldn’t have expected them from, or fromoutside the scenes that have traditionallysupported graªti or radical politics?Yeah, I think the whole thing with thisBORF stu¤, the BORF graªti, is that itreached beyond the usual suspects. Normalpeople, even tourists, would see itand take pictures and post it on the net.They’d think it was funny, from what I’dread. But I think there is something in all ofus that is trying to escape the daily routineof like, you know, go to work, fucking sitin traªc, go to sleep, maybe watch TV orwhatever. And I tried to express that, as dideveryone else who did the graªti, we triedto express that in the whole grown-ups vs.kids thing. Grown-ups are the ones whotry to destroy all the fun for kids, call thecops on parties or report suspicious thingsand people to the authorities, and theauthorities themselves, the bureaucrats,you know, the people in the capitol, theWhite House, those are all grown-ups. Ithink there is a child in all of us. I’ve heardthis quote, probably from someone inthe Situationists; they say the moment ofrevolt is childhood rediscovered. We arejust bringing out the spontaneity that wehave naturally in childhood.You talked about some of the di¤erent peoplewho supported the BORF work they saw onthe streets. How much do you think that supportmanifested itself in people feeling inspiredto put up work of their own versus just beingentertained by the spectacle of it? Do youthink people outside the BORF crew startedtagging BORF, inspired by what they saw, ordoing similar things around the city?It’s funny, because most of the peopleI inspired to do graªti and take part inshaping their surroundings were peopletotally against BORF graªti. I’ve seenpeople write FUCK right over some of theBORF tags around town, people crossingPage 86 : Art : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Art : Page 87

it out. This one dude was caught last yearwriting “BORF is a do…” He got arrestedby the MPD before he could finish andspent a night in jail. It turned out he wasjust some twenty-seven-year-old yuppietrying to insult BORF graªti.Do you consider BORF to be a form of art?Hell no. From the start, it was never acrass artistic exploitation of our friend’sdeath, but simply a group of juvenile delinquentsengaged in a war on the culture ofalienation. One way to di¤erentiate betweenart and graªti is that in graªti there isnever a product to sell. Graªti writers don’tmake paintings to put food on the table theway most artists do; we don’t conform toany bourgeois concepts of what “art” is.All the BORF graªti was the fruit of anadventurous night or a walk to a friend’shouse or a bored wait for a bus.What contemporary graªti or street artistsare you inspired by?I detest “street artists.” I could probablyeven say that most graªti writershate street artists. The streets are not atool for advertising! I’m inspired by peoplewho write for their own enjoyment and theenjoyment of their community, people whobeautify and retool the landscapes wherethey live and work. As far as writers I reallylike, I’d say KEGR from Denmark forconstantly changing names and raisingthe standard of quality in style even inthe most risky and illegal of spots. Usingdi¤erent names is a nice way of preventingthe fetishizing of one name. Other writersin the past have done this, too, likeDONDI in the 70s and 80s; but unlike hispredecessors, KEGR maintains his illegalityby painting on the streets, in a number ofcities around the world. I’m also inspiredby REVS, who destroyed both New YorkCity and the paradigm of spray paint as theonly medium used by graªti writers. Heextended the arsenal of tools for gettingup to include paint rollers, wheatpasting,and stencils. More recently he’s beencreating steel sculptures of his name andinstalling them in public spaces, furtherbreaking down the paradigm of graªti.He also does graªti just for the love ofit; in his words, “…once money changeshands for art, it becomes a fraudulentactivity.” Instead of easily exploiting andcapitalizing on his notoriety as a legend inthe world of graªti, he works as a unionironworker for a living.Is graªti inherently political? What makesit political?I guess, in a sense, any criminal activitycan be construed as political. But I thinkit’s a stretch to say that graªti is inherentlypolitical, especially with the new wave ofcorporate marketing through stencil work.I’d say the sense in which graªti can bepolitical is a matter of individual motive. Abroken window isn’t going to shut down acorporation, but the catharsis and excitementcould change that person’s life. I thinkit’s important to remember, though, thatgraªti doesn’t build movements. Any politicalstrength it can muster is limited.Is BORF an anarchist project?It’s a project of anarchists, but if youare asking whether it was to promote thepolitical aims and message of anarchism,then no. I think that would cheapen theideas and make them less personal forboth the people who participate and thepeople who see the results.I should clarify what I mean in describingBORF as a project of anarchists, aswell. I have, for the most part, been ananarchist throughout my life, even before Iknew what anarchism was. The delinquentimpulse in all of us is anarchist. Childrendo not have concepts of hierarchy, gender,property, and so on—that’s why it takesover twelve years of schooling and conditioningto break their spirits.In DC, the graªti seems to have had animpact on real estate developers and thosein the business “community,” and perhapshas even been a thorn in the side of gentrifiersand those who attempt to “beautify”neighborhoods for their own economic gain.What role do you think graªti can play incombating gentrification?I think it’s a minor part of the o¤ensiveagainst gentrification. As long as it’s grimy,everywhere, and the writers are determinedand come back after the city cleans it,graªti is pretty e¤ective in pissing o¤ cityoªcials, developers, and other uptight bureaucratictypes. Consider gra¤iti the visualharassment of yuppies; its e¤ectivenesscan be likened to strewing trash in thestreet or yelling abuse at them, both ofwhich can be e¤ective at scaring peopleaway and lowering property values,but don’t really change anything beyondthat. The only radically e¤ective weaponagainst the fuckers is community organizingand agitation: protests and ralliesthat publicize the e¤ects gentrificationhas on lower-income communities, lockdownsthat force evicting landlords toremove you physically from your home,support for those sorts of actions, evenjust talking to the people in your community.I think the reason the fuckers getaway with gentrification so easily is thedegree to which we are alienated fromeach other. The simple act of engagingin friendly conversation with someone onyour block or in your apartment buildingis dangerous to them. Graªti is merelya passive-aggressive means of personallyletting o¤ some steam, and maybe lettingother people in the neighborhood knowthat they are not the only ones that feela certain way.On another note, the description ofspeculators and developers as “those whowould attempt to ‘beautify’ neighborhoodsfor their own economic gain” can also beapplied to careerist street artists.Do you have a particular aªnity for DC thatmade it the landscape you chose to retool,as opposed to the suburbs of Virginia whereyou are from? What makes DC an area youchose to work in? Do you feel an aªnity tothe city?Yeah. I think this is probably one of myfavorite cities. I’ve spent a lot of my time inthe area and I think I relate to it in that it’skind of alien from everywhere else in thecountry—it’s not a state, people don’t havevoting rights—and in how run down mostparts of the city are. Well, that’s changingnow, I guess, with gentrification. But I canidentify with DC as a city… I don’t know,’cause I’ve never felt like I was a part ofthis country, or part of a national identityeither. I’ve never felt, ever, that I was partof anything at all, you know, I just felt like…it’s hard to articulate.I ask this because one thing that seemed commonin the media coverage and court proceedingsis that you were called an outsider—youwere from Virginia, and how dare you comeinto this city and deface property here.I think it’s just one of their fallbackmechanisms or whatever, they just havePage 88 : Art : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006

these ready to fall back on when they don’thave anything else to criticize someonefor. The City Paper did this article aboutthis person they called “Borf’s Nemesis.”He’s this guy that comes in from Roslyn,Virginia, to DC to paint over every piece ofBORF graªti he sees; he’s my antithesis.They wrote that whenever he passes apiece of BORF graªti he cringes and grindshis teeth and cusses out loud. He comesback later that day with some gray paintand paints over it. So it’s okay if you’recoming from outside city limits to paintover graªti, but don’t come in here to doit, that’s just horrible, unthinkable.There were a lot of contradictions inwhat the judge said to me when I wassentenced—like I’m a rich kid coming in toDC to paint on property in poor neighborhoods,when developers who happen toown half of the city own these buildings.It’s funny because the judge made it seemlike she was this mouthpiece for all thedisenfranchised and poor people of DCthat she sentences to years and years injail for non-violent drug o¤enses. All of asudden this white, aºuent woman in ahuge position of power is telling me onbehalf of all these people she puts in jail,whose oppression she perpetuates—she’stelling me that I’ve turned into what I hate,which is basically her.She’s suddenly developed a class analysis.Yeah, suddenly. It’s very convenient.I’ve heard you comment about how destructivedrugs and drinking have been to thegraªti scenes in specific cities, and mentionthat you abstain from these things. Could youexpound on that, and speak to how it relatesto your beliefs as an anarchist?Tupac said it best: “Think of the damagewe could do . . . if we wasn’t high.” It’s thesame for a lot of subversive communities,and definitely isn’t exclusive to graªti. InDC graªti, a lot of the best writers fromthe early and mid-90’s came out of thehardcore scene; a lot of them were straightedge. The most prolific writers were eitherstraight edge or “party animals” who didn’tgive a fuck. The latter usually only gotcaught because they were drunk or high(not giving a fuck is an important qualityfor any prolific graªti writer). To have ahigh-status, destructive writer arrestedis a serious blow to any graªti scene.That’s one of the reasons BORF is goodfor your liver.The ironic thing about the BORF graªtiis that it kind of turned into my addiction;whenever I was feeling bad or whatever, Iwould just go out and write something.Is that an example of how an addictioncan be healthy? How one can be high onthings that aren’t harmful, and how youcan define for yourself what you can do toget “high”? So when you’re down, you usethat energy to . . .Yeah, instead of destroying my health,I refaced property and hopefully madepeople laugh about it. A lot of the kids inthe DC graªti scene do a lot of drinking,they smoke and all that, while BORF wasone of the most destructive (or productive)writers in recent memory accordingto some news outlets.I remember asking you once how so muchBORF stu¤ got up, and your answer was thatbecause you don’t drink, smoke, or wasteyour time with other things, you just wentout and put things up instead.Yeah, that’s where most of my energywent—to graªti, to BORF.Invincibility seems to be a common themein the BORF work. One thing I took thisto mean was that we can get away with somuch more than people in power want usto believe we can… but with something likegraªti, maybe with anything that involveslegal risk, maybe not getting caught can alsomake us feel larger than we are. Can you talkabout that a little?Yeah, I think that’s what got me intotrouble. That’s what, you know, that feelinglarger than we are, kind of influenced mytalking to the Washington Post, which wasa stupid thing to do. But, yeah, whateveryou do, it’s on the streets for people tosee, and every little thing you do is visibleto every passerby, drivers, pedestrians,it’s kind of this “hey look what I can do”thing—I climbed this building and spentlike two hours up there painting…As far as trying to draw di¤erent lessons fromyour experiences, what do you think was a mistakeabout talking to the Washington Post?Do you think it was the way you did it, trustingthem at all, or what came out in it?Trusting them at all was the biggestmistake. Trusting anyone outside of myfriends is a big mistake. The whole pointof graªti is getting your own messageout by your own means. You don’t needanyone or anything but a can of paint toget your message out. They’ll stab you inthe back without thinking twice; they don’tgive a shit, they’re just careerists. They’lldo anything to forward their careers.In July of 2005 you were arrested in DC. Canyou tell us anything about what happenedthat night?Basically, I was out painting with somekids that didn’t really know what to doin that type of situation or how to carrythemselves on the streets without beingconspicuous as a suspect. One of thekids I was with, this homeless personasked us for change and my friend engagedhim in a conversation and asked him tolook out for him . . . and from there, thehomeless person used seeing my friendcommit a crime as leverage to try and getmore money from us. I didn’t have anymoney and my friend, I don’t know, but hewouldn’t give it to him if he did. And thenthe guy flagged down a cop, and we wentup an alley. I ditched my paint, and thena bunch of cops came and surrounded usafter we climbed a bunch of fences andran for a while; they had a helicopter andmotorcycles and trapped us.Do you think that they knew you were relatedto BORF when they were going after you? Helicoptersand such seem a little excessive . . .I think they knew that it was BORF.I even overheard them talking to eachother, like “Man, what if this was BORF?We could go district.”What were some of the things you were feelingwhen you were arrested, while you werebeing held, waiting to be released, and goingthrough the booking process?I was feeling like an idiot and, youknow, just basically regretting gettingcaught, going over what I should havedone di¤erently, the usual, but also fearingwhat was going to come out of it.And what followed the arrest?The morning after my arrest, a lot ofmedia showed up at my doorstep askingfor interviews, and asking me or myparents to talk.Could you take us through the timeline ofyour arrest? You were arrested—did you spendthe night in jail? What happened when yougot out? How did the whole media thingcome about?Yeah, so we were in custody . . . they tookus to the hospital to see if we wanted treatmentbecause we had cuts on our handsfrom climbing fences, and we refused. Oneof my friends refused to give his name, soI guess the procedure is that they keep youovernight until arraignment, when you canchoose to give them your name. I don’tknow how that works. We stayed thereovernight and got shipped around threetimes to di¤erent holding cells. Basically,we were really bored. When morning came,we went to the court building and waitedall day until the judge called us, which wasaround five o’clock. Then we got out, hadto do a drug test, and went home.When you got home, what did you discoverhad transpired while you were in jail?My mom had talked to the WashingtonPost some more, which was bad—thathurt my case a lot. She basically admitted,or revealed, that I was connected to theBORF phenomenon somehow, throughmy friend who died. I didn’t get a call injail, so I couldn’t call her and tell her notto talk to anyone.Was that an issue you’d ever talked to yourparents about before? Are there any lessonsthat other people who might be involvedwith something similar could learn fromthis? For instance, do you wish you everspoke to your parents about the possibilityof the media contacting them before thisand about the proper way to respond so itwouldn’t jeopardize you?I mean, my relationship with themisn’t too good. But I just wouldn’t tellanyone anything about what you’re doing.I wouldn’t talk about BORF graªtiat all with them, they just somehow connectedthings.Can you tell us a little bit about what happenedbetween when you were arrested andyour next court date?I went to arraignment right when I wasgetting out of jail, and they basically readmy charge, which was a misdemeanor,and then I went to a status hearing inmisdemeanor court . . .What was the misdemeanor charge?I guess it was “defacing public or privateproperty.” And I went to some statushearings to get my trial date. November18 came and I was indicted on twofelony counts, one “destruction of privateproperty,” and the other I guess was thesame, “defacing private or public property.”The next week my house was raidedby the Department of Justice and fifteenor so federal agents. They took whateverwas lying around, anything electronic, allmy computers, my camera, all that typeof stu¤ 12 . From there, in December the2 Dear readers—if you’re ever in a similar situation,don’t leave this stu¤ lying around at home!Page 90 : Art : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Art : Page 91

prosecution o¤ered a plea agreement andknowing that I had been arrested in NYon November 15, on some more graªtistu¤, I thought that it would be better totake a plea than to go to trial. That plus allthe other pressure they were putting onme, all the evidence they had just gottenfrom my house, and threatening me withfederal charges for tagging highway signs.My lawyer made a counter-o¤er for a pleadeal and I decided to take it and agreedto pay $12,000 in restitution, do 80 hoursof cleaning up graªti, and 120 hours ofcommunity service. I pled sometime inmid-December. A ‘show-cause’ hearingwas set up to show why my release shouldbe revoked because of my arrest in NYC.They didn’t have probable cause for that,so the judge kept me on personal recognizancebut banned me from the Districtof Columbia until sentencing, and I wasn’tallowed to have art supplies on me exceptwhen going to school. Come sentencing,which was February 9, she put me in jailfor 30 days, gave me a suspended sentenceof 17 months, and put me on three yearsprobation. Right now I’m getting drugtested twice a week.And you still have to make restitution anddo the community service?Yeah.Before you made the plea, what was themaximum sentence you were being threatenedwith?When it was a misdemeanor, the maximumsentence was 180 days in jail, and/ora $5,000 fine. When it was a felony it wasten years in prison and I dunno, a $10,000fine, a $1,000,000 fine…What were some of the things you had toweigh specifically when you were consideringthe plea bargain? What were someof the things that were helpful to you indeciding whether to fight the charges ortake a plea?Through this whole process I had alawyer doing this pro bono, for free. Onereason I used him was that I didn’t wantto have a huge legal cost I couldn’t a¤ord.I didn’t want to go through my parents topay for a lawyer and whatever else, so Iwas thinking about that and how much itwould cost to go through years of litigationand probably new charges. Even if I wonthis case, they could have brought evenmore felony charges and maybe even triedto move them up to federal charges. Sothat was in the back of my mind, and alsojust wanting to get it over with. Being inthat situation is really stressful, there’sa lot of pressure on you. So wanting toget it over with and trying to weigh whatwould happen in the future if I won thiscase, which kind of looked impossible atthe time. One thing my lawyer said wasthat I’d probably be spending $12,000, ifnot way more, on future legal fees if theybrought more charges back, but I couldjust pay the same amount in restitutionnow and get it over with. He also said thatI could possibly get what’s called the YouthAct—if I completed my probation withoutany problems, they’d erase my record andthe felony conviction.Did you get that?Yes.So you served 30 days in jail. What did youfeel initially going in?Basically the night before and the morningof court, that day, I was preparing togo to jail, and even months before, I justfigured I was going to jail automatically. So Iwas mentally preparing mostly beforehandto deal with this, to be comfortable withgoing to jail for however long. The firstweek in jail was the hardest—talking tothe other people in jail, they agreed thatthe first week or two is always the hardest.Just adjusting, coming from the outsideinto this highly regimented and controlledliving situation. Being processed into theDC jail, a bunch of the guards and otherinmates recognized me or found out whoI was, why I was in there, and gave me alot of props for it, commending my workand sizing me up to other inmates so Iwouldn’t get fucked with. Some guardseven wanted to shake my hand ’cause theyliked my work so much. In jail I would do alot of drawings of people’s families for foodI could eat, like candy bars or vegetablesides from dinner or lunch or whatever.Overall no one fucked with me that much,except for verbal harassment.One thing you mentioned was that you didn’treally get harassed or bothered that much.Did you expect to get bothered more?Yeah. They put me in protective custody,where you’re locked down in a cell fortwenty-three-and-a-half hours per day, onlycoming out for a shower and a phone call.The deputy warden decided that I shouldbe there, against my will, so I couldn’tinteract with other inmates.Did you have any preconceived ideas aboutjail that changed after serving the timeyou did?The only things I knew about jail beforehandwere what I saw in movies and on TVand what friends and other people who’vedone some time told me. What I gatheredwas that, overall, it’s a scary and stressfulplace with awful food. None of thosepreconceived ideas have really changed,although my time in DC jail wasn’t toostressful or scary, I guess because of theweird position I was in.Tell us more about your jail experience,share some things you felt, you learned,you experienced. How did you deal withthe situation?Mostly, I just missed my people andbreathing fresh air, seeing trees, hearingbirds, feeling the warmth of the sun. SometimesI’d start thinking about all thefucked up shit the prosecutorshad done and all the bullshitthe judge said to mebefore sentencing and allthe snitches and reportersthat fucked me over, whichgot me feeling completelypowerless.To overcome those thingsfor the moment, I woulddraw or write and maybelisten to the other guys onmy tier talk about what theywere gonna do when theygot out. There were thingseveryone did to stay sane. Iwould try as best I could tolive from meal to meal andlook forward to crossing outanother day on the calendar Ihad made for myself. Readingall the great letters I receivedwas the highlight of every weeknight. Other guys would make funof guards or other inmates or prayor write poetry, or throw their piss atsnitches and people they didn’t like.In an interview while you were in jail, theWashington City Paper said you “felt luckyto have been able to meet the people” youmet in jail and then quoted you as saying:“People with my background, my skin color,and my age don’t get to talk to these peopleand really get to know them.” Can you explainthat more?There are the economically and sociallymarginalized, and then there are thosewho are physically marginalized—peoplephysically taken out of society and forgotten—andI got to talk with and listen tothem on an inmate-to-inmate level. Thereare countless barriers set up to keep peopleon the outside separate, no matter howclose we are geographically. I felt lucky tohave met those folks, because the majorityof them were people who’ve been beatendown from all directions for most of theirlives and are only in there for trying to getout of the gutter through their own means.They are in the worst possible positions,facing decades in prison, and somehowcontinue to dream and keep their chinsup. The guys on my tier taught me howto hang in there and how to not take shitfrom people in power or people trying toCopy this image and make your own Borfstencil using the directions on page 95.intimidate me. It made all of my self-doubtand lack of confidence seem petty andshallow. If they can do it, I can do it.And what did you feel upon release?It was a fucking beautiful day. Whenthey did the final ID verification and openedthe gates, the two guys I was released withand I sprinted up the hill to the street asfast as we could. The sky was blue, the sunwas setting, the birds were chirping, andI felt nothing but relief and a newfoundexcitement about life. To think I was onlyin there for a month!What have you been doing lately?A whole lot of community service, andtrying to catch up on schoolwork I missedwhile I was in jail, and trying to paint anddraw more.Any idea what’s next for BORF, after all thathas happened?Nope. The BORF Brigade has kickedme out of the group for too much mediaexposure and for losing my anonymity. It’sall up to them now, I guess.Page 92 : Art : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Art : Page 93

The following text was used as evidence in amotion by the U.S. Attorney to revoke the defendant’sconditional release pending trial:How to Be Invincible:Tips for Not GettingCaughtIf you are under 18, you are alreadyinvincible. If not, maintain the spirit.DON’T ATTRACT ATTENTION TOYOURSELF: Disguise yourself and yourmaterials. For example, cut stencils outof the bottoms of pizza boxes or paperbags.HAVE CONFIDENCE: Always look likeyou know exactly what you are doing, as ifyou are “supposed” to be doing it. Mostpeople won’t think twice about you if youdisplay enough confidence.WEAR GLOVES: Always keep yourhands and clothing clean. Hands coveredin paint or clothing with paint stains canbreed suspicion in cops or other passersby,and may incriminate you in court.USE LOOKOUTS: This is really important.With your friends keeping watch,the chances of someone witnessing youin the act are a lot smaller. If you are notcaught or seen, it is extremely diªcult toprove beyond a reasonable doubt that youare the culprit.KEEP MOVING: Never stay in onearea for too long. If you feel sketched outby something and aren’t finished withwhat you’re doing, move on and comeback later. Painting fast is important onthe streets.STAY CALM UNDER SUSPICION: Policeapproach to graªti varies from city tocity. In Washington, D.C., if a pig slowsdown his car and stares at you while you’rewalking or stops right in front of you whenyou’re crossing a street, he’s not necessarilygoing to hit on you, so don’t run righto¤. They do this sometimes to see if you’llrun; running is the equivalent to yelling“I’m a criminal!” During this frighteningperiod of being followed, you should bepreparing a story to tell if the oªcer getsout of his car and detains you. It’s importantto be creative under pressure.HAVE YOUR STORY STRAIGHT: Ifyou are out with other people, make sureyou have your stories straight with eachother in case you are stopped by police.Remember, you don’t have to tell themanything, and it’s generally best that youdon’t. Sometimes, however, if they ask asimple question, like what you’re doing outso late or where you’re headed, a quick andstraightforward answer might allay theirsuspicions. If you give a fake name, makesure you don’t have ID in your pocket thatsays otherwise, and that your pals knowthe name you give.BE PREPARED TO RUN: It is alwayssmart to run from irate citizens, securityguards, vigilante scumbags like the“Guardian Angels,” and police when youthink you really need to.DESTROY THE EVIDENCE: If you feellike you are about to be confronted by alunatic vigilante or pig, dump your paintand destroy or hide your stencil. If youcan’t dump your paint without drawingattention to it, remove the spray caps fromthe cans and dispose of those. Withoutthe caps, you can’t spray the paint, sohow could you have been the one that didthat graªti? Also, keep your car and houseclean of any graªti-related paraphernaliain case of searches.NEVER ADMIT TO ANYTHING: Thatmeans never. Don’t talk about your workover the phone or on the internet.SNITCHES GET STITCHES: This isenforced. It is never okay to implicateothers in illegal activity. Even harmlessgossip can be very dangerous. Keep whatyou know about the activities of othersto yourself.How toMake a StencilChoose an image and enlarge it tothe desired size. For life-sized prints, youcan go to Kinko’s and use the self-serviceenlarger that prints out onto paper either24 or 36 inches wide. Fold up the bigsheet of paper and put it in your pocketor backpack. If a Kinko’s employee triesto stop you, simply say “BORF sent me.”Then run.1) The easy approach is using Photoshopand going to Image>Adjust>Brightness &Contrast and move the Contrast bar all theway to the right.2) Glue the paper with your imagedirectly to the material from which you’recutting the stencil. Cardboard is a commonmedium because it’s easy to obtain, free,and durable. Non-corrugated cardboard,like that used for political posters or filefolders, is easiest to cut.3) Use an Exacto knife to cut the stencil.4) When your stencil is done, spraythrough it from a distance of 8-12 inches,moving quickly (spraying too close or movingtoo slowly could mean lots of drips).Make sure the stencil is flat against thesurface you are spraying. If any part of thestencil comes o¤ of the surface even a littlebit, underspraying will occur, making yourfinished product look blurry. You can avoidunderspraying by using spray adhesive ortaping the edges of the stencil down.Communiqué #1Borf is not caught.Borf is many. Borf is none. Borf is waitingfor you in your car. Borf is in yourpockets. Borf is running through yourveins. Borf is naïve. Borf is good for yourliver. Borf is controlling your thoughts.Borf is everywhere. Borf is the war onboredom. Borf annihilates. Borf hatesschool. Borf is a four letter word for joy.Borf is quickly losing patience. Borf yellsin the library. Borf eats pieces of shit likeyou for breakfast. Borf is digging a holeto China. Borf is bad at graªti. Borf isephemeral. Borf is invincible. Borf. Borfruins everything. Borf runs near the swimmingpool. Borf keeps it real. Borf writesyou love letters. Ol’ Dirty Bastard is Borf.Borf knows everything. Borf is in the water.Borf doesn’t sleep. Borf systematically attacksthe infrastructure of the totality. Borfis a foulmouth. Borf eats your homework.Borf brings you home for dinner. Borf isthe dirt under your fingernails. Borf is thesong that never ends. Borf gets down.Borf gets up. Borf is your baby. Borf isneither. Borf is good for your heart, themore you eat the more you. Borf is. Borfdestroys. Borf is immortal. Borf pulls firealarms. Borf scu¤s the gym floor. Borf islooking through your mom’s purse. Borfis M. Borf is the size of Alaska. Borf likespizza. Borf is in general. Borf ain’t nothin’to fuck with. Borf runs it. Borf has reflexeslike a cat. Borf is immortal. Borf sticks gumunder the desk. Borf is omnipotent. Borfis flawed. Borf is winning.Art is dead. Long live Borf.Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Art : Page 95

A WORKING CLASSHERO IS SOMETHINGTO BEA Brief History of the UnitedFreedom Front and a SomewhatBelated Eulogy to Richard WilliamsThere is a lot of talk these days about the “Green Scare,”and about the FBI’s clumsy attempts to bully the anarchist,environmentalist, anti-globalization, antiwar, and animalliberation movements into inaction and passivity. Those ofus who struggle in the trenches of these movements woulddo well to be reminded that history is replete with examplesof people who have remained steadfast in the face of farworse repression than anything we are dealing with rightnow. To that end, this is a good time to briefly pay our respectsto our brother Richard Williams, whose spirit passedto the other side on December 7th of 2005.Richard Charles Williams was born on November 4 th ,1947, in Beverly, MA, the son of a seamstress and a machineoperator. He was arrested for marijuana possession in 1967,and went to jail rather than go to Vietnam. He was arrestedagain for burglary in New Hampshire in 1971, and wassentenced to seven to fifteen years. He became politicizedwhile in prison, participated in food and work strikes andprotests for better conditions, and was elected chairpersonof the New England Prisoners Association. After his releasehe was part of the Amandla Concert in Harvard Stadiumin 1979, which featured Bob Marley and raised funds foranti-apartheid groups in South Africa. He also providedcommunity security, house-sitting for people when homeswere being firebombed by racists during the school integrationand busing crisis in Boston and in the aftermath of themurders of demonstrators in Greensboro, NC by the KuKlux Klan. In 1981 he disappeared from view.On November 4 th , 1984 Richard was captured in Cleveland,OH, along with Raymond Luc Levasseur, PatriciaGros, Barbara Curzi, and Jaan Laaman. On November 25thof 1985 Carol Soucier and Thomas Manning were capturedin Norfolk, Virginia. These arrests brought to an end theincredibly illustrious ten year career of a tiny clandestinegroup known as the Sam Melville/Jonathan Jackson Unit,and later the United Freedom Front, which had absolutelybedeviled the authorities since 1974. The United States’government labeled the pursuit of these seven people as thelargest fugitive hunt it had ever conducted up to that point.During those ten years the group claimed responsibility forno less than twelve bank robberies (netting some nine hundredthousand dollars) and nineteen bombings, mostly inthe vicinity of Boston and New York City, including those oftwo courthouses, the o∞ce of the Massachusetts Commissionerof Probation, the First National Bank of Boston, twoarmy reserve centers, two naval reserve centers, a SouthAfrican Procurement O∞ce, and the corporate o∞cesof Mobil Oil (three times), IBM (twice), the HoneywellCorporation, the Motorola Corporation, General Electric,and Union Carbide (twice). A succession of communiquésexplained that these actions had been carried out to punishthese corporations and institutions for their complicity withthe regime that maintained apartheid in South Africa andthe covert wars in Central America, and also in support ofthe Puerto Rican independence movement and in protest ofracism, economic injustice, and the prison system.No one was ever injured during any of the UFF actions,and property damage was extensive. Nineteen people wereinjured, however, during the first SMJJ bombing, at theCounty Courthouse in Boston. The SMJJ Unit acceptedresponsibility for this mistake, stating that their warningcall had been ignored. Twice over these years members ofthe group outmaneuvered police in firefights and successfullyescaped capture; in one incident, a New Jersey StateTrooper named Phillip Lamonaco was killed following atra∞c stop.Upon arrest, these people came to be known as the Ohio7. They were three married couples and a single father,Williams—by all accounts devoted parents who had raisedseveral children during their years underground. In contrastto many of the radical groups of the time, they were whitepeople from working class backgrounds who had cast theirbets with the oppressed and downtrodden people of theworld. Levasseur and Manning were Vietnam veterans. Allof the men had been to prison, and had worked much oftheir lives in factories, logging camps, steel mills, constructionsites and the like.The Ohio 7, needless to say, spent much of the next fewyears in court. Manning, Laaman, Levasseur, and Williamswere convicted for five of the UFF bombings in Brooklyn,NY in 1986 and got fifty-three years apiece. Gros did threeand-a-halfyears for harboring a fugitive, Levasseur—herhusband and the father of her three children. Curzi didseven years. Manning and Williams were charged withmurder in Somerville, NJ in 1987 in the death of PhillipLamonaco. Manning was convicted, and got another eightyyears, but not before winning a hung jury for Williamswhen, in what must be hailed as an extremely selfless actof brinksmanship, he testified unequivocally that he hadin fact shot Lamonaco, and that Williams had not been involvedor present. It also came out in the course of this trialthat Mr. Lamonaco had been implicated in other shootings,and that he had shot at Manning at least six times withan unlicensed, unregistered “drop gun” (i.e., one which isavailable to be planted at a crime scene) before Manningkilled him.This was followed by one of the more epic trials inAmerican legal history, when all seven were tried in federalcourt in Springfield, MA under the rarely applied chargesof Seditious Conspiracy to Overthrow the Government of theUnited States by Force and of belonging to a Racketeer-Influencedand Corrupt Organization. Another defendant at onepoint in this case, Kazi Toure, was the first black person toever face these charges in this country. The trial lasted twofull years, involved testimony from two hundred witnesses,saw one-thousand-seven-hundred pieces of evidence introduced,and cost taxpayers an estimated sixty million dollarsbetween the prosecution’s legal expenses and the massivedaily security apparatus. Ray Luc Levasseur representedhimself, stood by everything the SMJJ and UFF had done,and spoke movingly about his life and the experienceswhich had transformed him into a revolutionary. On November27 th , 1989 the jury refused to convict the Ohio 7 of asingle charge. Levasseur’s statements to the court have quiterightfully been floating around radical circles in pamphletform ever since. In 1991 Williams was retried, and this timeconvicted, in New Jersey in the death of Phillip Lomanaco.Ray Luc Levasseur walked out of prison on November2 nd , 2004 after more than twenty years in several of theharshest penal institutions in the United States, much ofit in solitary confinement. He had written at one pointthat “those of us convicted of United Freedom Frontactivities were guided by our political commitment, goodconscience, moral obligation, and responsibilities underinternational law, including the Nuremberg Principles. Itwas the intent and purpose of the UFF actions to exposeU.S. government and corporate complicity with apartheid,and encourage the American people to do everythingnecessary to end this criminal partnership.” He stated onrelease that he and his friends “stand on the side of historythat will vindicate our actions to alleviate the su≠ering ofthose most used and abused by a system that prioritizesprofit over human needs.”Tom Manning and Jaan Laaman can make a legitimateclaim to hold the distinct honor of being the last antiapartheidcombatants held in prison anywhere in theworld. Laaman’s state sentence will run out soon, and hehas said that he will appeal his federal sentence. He wouldbe overdue for release if successful in this. He is trying toraise money for this appeal. Assistance toward that end canbe made out to the Jaan Laaman Legal Freedom Fund, POBOX 681, East Boston, MA, 02128. Manning will undoubtedlyspend the rest of his life in prison unless, as many of usconsider likely, the world changes soon enough to forestallthis eventuality.Richard Williams died in the Federal Medical Center inButner, NC, on the very same day that the FBI’s current setof roundups began. He had been in increasingly poor healthdue to Hepatitis C and complications arising from cancertreatment. His family has stated that the health problemsleading to his death were greatly exacerbated by the factthat he was systematically denied adequate medical treatmentand exercise by his captors, who basically left him todie in solitary confinement. There are no words or excuseswhich can mitigate a crime such as this—that a man ofWilliams’ caliber should die in prison while the murdererswho bankrolled the Salvadoran death squads walk free.However, lest our enemies use his death as a deterrent tothose who would finish his work, let this never be forgotten:Richard Williams outlived the apartheid system that hefought against so bravely. Those currently under indictmenton Green Scare charges may also live to see the rapaciousindustries that they are accused of opposing grind to a halt.History has mercifully forgotten most of the despicablenames of the functionaries who managed the slave plantations,but it has remembered those of John Brown andHarriet Tubman. The day will come when it will honor thatof Richard Williams.Following Williams’ death, the Los Angeleschapter of the Anarchist Black Cross Networkwrote that “Richard went through life with openarms but closed fists; prepared to embrace theworld but also to fight for what is right and just.Richard can now relax his fists. It is time to closeours.” These words, and the actions that they suggest,seem as good a tribute as any to a man whomore than did his part throughout the course of atruly epic life.Page 96 : Eulogy : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Eulogy : Page 97

The Fine Art ofCriticism:A How-To Guidefor AspiringJournalistsThose who can, write; those who can’t,write reviews. Writing reviews is the surestshortcut to a sensation of power for thosewho lack the dedication necessary to createsomething of actual worth. In passingjudgment on others’ work, the reviewerexperiences a fleeting high of self-importancecheaper than any other.And fortunately for the next generationof hacks, after squandering the best yearsof our writing careers composing purpleprose for the throwaway tabloids of yellowjournalism, we’ve finally perfected thismost elusive of literary forms. Deceptivelysimple and mundane, reviews are oftenassumed to be easy to pen; in fact, it’salmost impossible to compose one worthreading. To save you the trouble of su¤eringthrough this learning process yourself (andyour potential readers the risk of su¤eringalong with you), we present here a surefirefailsafe handy guide to themost rightly unappreciatedliterary form of the twentiethcentury. Mix yourselfa sti¤ metaphor, cultivatean air of supercilious indifference—aprerequisite forany reviewer worth the salthe hopes to pour in others’wounds—and read on.The ComparisonThis is the most commonconvention in the reviewer’srepertoire, and the mostswiftly, thoughtlessly trottedout. It comes in three basicvarieties:A is like B: “Orwell’s 1984is basically a rewrite of Zamyatin’sWe, right down to the use ofpunctuation marks.” “Like any otherband with guitars, bass, and drums,Cannibal Corpse owes everything toChuck Berry.”A is like B + C: “The sequel toThe Matrix is the bastard child of Nintendovideo games and MTV’s ‘The Daily Grind.’”“Dragonforce sounds like Richard Marx withdouble bass.”A is like B (perhaps + C) under extenuatingconditions: these can include,for example, drugs—“Jackson Pollock islike, uh, Matisse on serious methamphetamines”—violence—“Baudrillardo¤ers thesort of insights Foucault would have hit uponif he’d su¤ered severe head trauma at an earlyage”—evocative locations—“Imagine Tolstoy’sWar and Peace if it was set in a Sovietgulag across only three days; there you haveit, Solzhenitsyn’s The First Circle”—or, formaximum cliché action, all three: “MuppetBurger’s new album “Fuzzy Massacre”sounds like Sun Ra and Sinead O’Conner,cranked out of their minds on cough syrup andbanana peel blunts, beating the stuªng outof Morrissey in a dark alley while hummingLa Marseilles to themselves.”The Fawning AccoladeA critic should not tender a positivereview unless he believes he stands to gainin some way. Sometimes demonstratingone’s superiority by exhibiting prescienttaste can be as gratifying as the more directapproach of simply declaring somethinginferior. Of course, the power dynamicsshift as soon as the spotlighted upstartgains a certain amount of attention: then,glorification accrues to the artist ratherthan the reviewer, so one must return toscorn and ridicule.Things are not usually even this complex:a guest list and bar tab beckon, asenior editor threatens, advertising dollarsawait, Public Opinion counsels that this isgoing to be a Hot Item this year and thosewho fail to get on board do so at their ownperil. One must give positive reviews tosomething, after all, and it never hurts tokill two birds with one stone.Sometimes it does occur that a neophyte,carried away by actual passion unbecomingof the serious journalist, expresseshonest appreciation. Please, resist thistemptation. We’ve all got mouths to feedin this business, and a certain professionalstandard of restraint and objectivity is onlycommon sense.The InterpretationThe critic does well to cast himself as theartist’s interpreter, a modern-day successorof the priests who explicated the druggedravings of the Oracle of Delphi. This relationshipplaces the critic in the more essentialrole: any damn fool can get hooked onheroin and put a few chords together, but ittakes a Greil Marcus to construct meaningout of the resulting cacophony and go on totrace its lineage to the Anabaptists. Artistsare idiot savants who achieve greatness byunhinging themselves, as Rimbaud himselfinsisted—that’s why the best of them dieyoung; does it make sense to allow suchpeople to speak for themselves? Besides,as a dancer, asked by a journalist to speakabout her newest work, once rejoined, “IfI could tell you about it, I wouldn’t haveto dance it.”For best results, select the most incoherentand opaque artwork, rewarding artistsand movements that produce this withpositive coverage. Ideally, the public, knowingthemselves unqualified to do, feel, orthink anything on their own, should bypassthe artwork completely, coming directlyto the critics. It goes without saying thatany creative person who makes concretestatements—the musician who speaksbetween songs, the poet who dares writeabout a current war—should be decisivelyignored, or at least dismissed as superficial.This policy worked fabulously for art criticsthroughout the twentieth century, and indeedmay explain the evolutionary trajectoryof Western art across that era.The Personal AnecdoteWhen a reviewer feels the itch to holdforth about his own extensive experienceas a widely traveled citizen of the world, heneed not stick to the matter at hand. Manya frustrated travel writer, philosopher, religiousmystic, and misanthrope has founda lasting career as a reviewer—not leastbecause it is one of the few writing jobsin which it is not important that anyoneactually read your work.Hearsay and SpeculationReviewers have to worry about theirfacts being checked about as much asfederal agents at a bail hearing. Any oldthing you heard or might have heard isfair game. It’s your job to keep thingsinteresting, so don’t hesitate to spice upyour review with a little scandalous gossip:I used to be a card-carrying member of TheAnarchist Movement, until I heard Bakuninwas actually a paid agent of the Czar.The Stream of InvectiveThis can range from a simple insult(regarding Jack Kerouac’s claim that hewrote On the Road in a matter of days,Truman Capote quipped, “That’s not writing,that’s typing”) to a veritable torrentof abuse—which, in some cases, may bewell deserved:Imagine Def Leppard if Wesley Williswas the principle songwriter and theirvocalist sounded like a character fromThe Flintstones. Now imagine whateveryou just imagined, only worse. Thereyou have it, the debut from AndrewWK, “I Get Wet.” This makes the stu¤they play over the public address systemsat professional football gamesseem bookish and highbrow. The lyricsare pathologically tautological (“youcan’t stop what you can’t end”), theri¤s sound like cheap radio advertisingjingles with some of the notes playedwrong, the end of every song soundslike a television being switched o¤. Forthat matter, the beginning of every songsounds like a television being switchedon! My friend Gabe says this makeshim feel like he’s at a keg party at a frathouse, but there are no women there,just drunk, belligerent jocks and braindamagedfootball players wrestling thefurniture and shouting each other downabout the stock market. Myself, I can’thelp but imagine this blaring over thespeakers in the personnel bay of anarmy helicopter as GIs are airlifted intoan Iraqi village to slaughter mothersand children—and as if in anticipationof this, Andrew has recorded a trackin which he sings over and over “Youbetter get ready to kill, get ready to die.”Even if you didn’t have serious doubtsabout the future of Western civilizationbefore you heard this release, onelisten will make you a revolutionary inthe tradition of the Dadaists and Situationistswho set out to put an end toart itself—that is, if it doesn’t reduceyou to utter nihilism.Absurd AllegationsWhen it’s not possible to unleash awell-founded Stream of Invective, but thereviewer still desires to maintain the readers’attention, he must fall back upon whatphilosophers call the straw man argument:he must concoct the most ridiculous makebelieveversion of the subject of the reviewhe possibly can, and display his greatstrength and prowess by painstakinglytearing it apart.In ideological circles—including certainanarchist camps, strange to tell, where somuch talk of solidarity would lead one toexpect constructive criticism to be the orderof the day—this approach is even morecommon than the Comparison. Those whobelieve—often correctly—that their ideascan only be of interest if all other ideas areentirely bankrupt must remain ever vigilant,ready to pounce upon and discredit otherthinkers by any means necessary.The Irrelevant DigressionThe digression comes in two forms.In the more common form, it is a sort ofverbal smoking break in which the writergets up from his desk, takes a breath, andstretches his legs, all without ceasing toaddress the reader. Reviewers who wishto curry favor with discriminating readersshould throw in as many of these as possible:the less attention they pay to theREVIEWSsubject of the review, the more bearabletheir writing is bound to be.Alternately, the digression can be anunderhanded way to slip in Absurd Allegations,when there is no more straightforwardpretext for introducing them. Forexample, in the midst of a review of thethoroughly utilitarian Recipes for Disaster:An Anarchist Cookbook, which is simply acollection of direct action tactics, the AnarchyMagazine reviewer can, as if remainingon topic, stray into such ramblings as:Their interpretation of social changeseems to be that ‘good people’ can, andshould, be agents of social change. Thematerial conditions of that change, thehorrible consequences of ‘bad people,’and the history of social change thatdoesn’t conform to the ‘good people’model are all outside the scope ofCrimethInc.’s approach. It is as if theyhave made a good and right choice andaren’t going to let reality interfere with it.Sample ExerciseDash o¤ a review of this issue of RollingThunder and submit it to Clamor (keith@clamormagazine.org) for publication.Whether you compose a Stream of Invective,an Absurd Allegation, or an IrrelevantDigression, and regardless of whether youhave ever undertaken to write a singleword before in the English language (orhave even read any part of this magazineother than this sentence), your review isbound to be more balanced and informativethan anything that would appear inthat publication otherwise.Page 98 : Reviews : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Reviews : Page 99

Ron SakolskyCreating AnarchyFifth Estate Books, P.O. Box 6,Liberty, TN 37095In honor of the author’s taste for surrealistplay, rather than review this book inpedantic abstractions I have picked foursentences from it at random which servewell enough to illustrate itsstrengths and limitations.First, my finger happensto fall upon the openingsentence of the publisher’spreface: “The book you holdis mind medicine to heal theills of social mediocrity.” Showus, don’t tell us, why don’tyou! The publisher meanswell enough, but evidentlyhasn’t mastered the fine artof restraint; perhaps we can’t hold theauthor accountable for this, but it doessay something that he keeps this sort ofcompany. (On the other hand, his work isbeing reviewed in Rolling Thunder, so I supposelittle more need be said.) In this light,anyway, the snatches of poetry and collageart that illustrate the essays and occasionalinterviews will come as no surprise.Flipping to the center of the book, Icome upon another sentence, informingme that “surrealist Robert Desnos, atseventeen, was involved with a band of anarchiststhat included former Bonnot gangmembers.” Is this interesting to you? It isto me—though I don’t know a whole lotabout Desnos, my punk band reworked aline of his poetry to serve as the closinglyrics of one of our songs (“we’ve raisedanchor forever—the world lies in our wake;and that ache, there is nothing so sweet”),and the parable The Astrologer that appearselsewhere in this issue is ever-so-looselybased on his life story. Despite this passingacquaintance with him, I had no idea herubbed shoulders with the so-called Bonnotgang, the anarchist bank robbers whoterrorized France with their invention ofthe getaway car and who—as I never tire ofpointing out—prefigured many anarchiststoday in their commitments to sobriety andvegetarianism. If historical tidbits like thisfascinate you—and they might not, in thiscontext, unless you are already minimallyfamiliar with surrealist history, twentiethcentury jazz and blues, and the recentmisdeeds of the FCC—Creating Anarchyhas much to o¤er.My third arbitrary selection o¤ers moreinsight into the author’s personality andbackground: “During the 1970s and 80s,I had luckily been able to receive Cubanrecords in the mail from a friend in Polandin exchange for Chicago blues sides.” Thisis Ron Sakolsky in a nutshell: his tirelesscuriosity and internationalistanti-authoritarianism havelong inspired him to small-timesubversive activity, though thislargely takes the form of creativeinvestigation rather than confrontationalmilitancy. He seesthe surrealist Eruption of theMarvelous in early blues musicthe way the Situationists saw therevolutionary reappropriation oflife in the Watts riots—and theformer is more up his alley, it seems, basedon what he includes and omits.Not to say Sakolsky isn’t down for therevolution. Flipping back to an earlier pagein the book, I come across the hypothesisthat “any resistance movement, in order toattract large numbers of people, has to be romantic.”This statement is noteworthy notbecause it is typical of this author—he’s aromantic, we already knew that—so muchas for the way it reveals an underlyingtension in an entire current of anarchistthought. At first, it seems to extol romanticism,but at second glance it turns outthat this romanticism is recommended forvery pragmatic reasons. A true romanticwould probably frame things the other wayaround: for example, “any movement oflarge numbers of people, in order to betruly romantic, has to involve resistance.”On the other hand, perhaps this hardnosedpragmatism is itself a symptom ofa deeper-seated romanticism: nowadays,only quixotic dreamers are drawn to theproject of building a resistance movementof large numbers of people.I’ll close with what, to me, is the highlightof the whole book, a passage in whichSakolsky recounts the story of a Chicagobus driver who “announced to his passengersthat he could no longer endure the monotonyof his job and was about to drive the bus thatthey were on to Florida. Any of the nine orso passengers who wished to accompanyhim were welcome to stay on board. Twopassengers immediately exited, then another,but the rest evidently decided to go to Florida,or at least to see what would happen next.Several hours later, in southern Indiana, thebus was pulled over by State Police, and thedriver arrested and returned to Chicago.”Sakolsky goes on to quote his colleagueFranklin Rosemont at length, and I can’tresist doing so myself as well:“Notwithstanding its disappointingconclusion, this story has remained forme an unending source of reverie and inspiration.Here were seven people castingaside all the fetters of everyday routine,pursuing every risk for the pleasure ofrealizing, however fleetingly, somethingof the splendor hinted at by fairy talesand heroic adventures. Is not all thatwe have in the way of hope founded onthe premise that some day, and perhapsnot such a distant day, thousands andeven millions will come to approachlife with this same ardor for discovery,this readiness to abandon everythingbut the consequences of desire? Someday there will be no State Police, or anyother police, to obstruct the free play ofthe walking dreamers! Some day theHalsted Street bus will reach Floridaand will set out from there to new destinations!From Halsted Street to EasterIsland to the Garden of Eden!”Bus riders and authors alike, one moree¤ort to be revolutionaries! It’s one thingto long for, write of, and even seize uponsuch points of departure; it’s another thingentirely to fight o¤ the State Police and keepthat bus on the road. On the back cover,the publisher touts this book as “a brickfor hurling through the windows of despair,”but today those windows are made of realcorporate plate glass; trading the real bricksof anarchist vandals for the conceptualbricks of anarchist pundits is a step backward,not forward. One can’t help but longfor a Robert Desnos who stuck with thebank robbers, so he didn’t have to go tothe death camps and die of typhoid fever.None of this is Sakolsky’s fault, exactly—onthe contrary, he deserves great praise forsticking with the anti-authoritarian projectfor so long, and contributing such visionaryhistory and prose to it; but carried away bythose visions, a heart such as mine (talkabout romanticism!) can’t help but growimpatient for more discussion of how wecan defend and extend them.Regina Spektor,Begin to Hope CDBegin to Hope is Russian-born, partially-American-raised Regina Spektor’s fourthalbum, second widely-released recording,and first major labelrelease. 1 She has made aname for herself over thepast several years with hervirtuoso piano playing anddynamic vocal presencecombined with delightfullyeclectic lyrics as partof the ‘anti-folk’ movementin NYC.While many indie musicians hide behindthe fuzz of lo-fi recording, Spektor shineshere in the lavish production a¤ordedby her label’s deep pockets. While notabandoning the spare songs consistingprimarily of piano and voice, she doestake advantage of having more access toresources to craft an entirely new sound formany of her songs; of the twelve on Beginto Hope, six are composed with additionalinstrumentation and samples. This hascaused controversy among her audience,but, well, sometimes people want you tostay the same way forever, for them. Reginaisn’t making music for them.She masterfully walks the line betweencreating art to please an audience andcreating art that is satisfying for the artistto create. Too much of either can sinkthe best of e¤orts, but the songs hererange from spontaneously engaging torewarding a decent amount of e¤ort onthe listeners part, and all shine with thelustre of pure joy and gratification foundin their creation. She is having fun, butnot at our expense.A classically trained pianist, hammeringaway at the keys since the age of eight,Spektor creates songs that have an effortlesscomplexity. She doesn’t settle forthe simple verse-chorus-verse structure,and her songs never lower themselves torepeating the same melodies over andover again. Nearly every song is dynamicand constantly modifies its refrains and1 While an artist’s decision to go the majorlabelroute is always a little sorrow-inducing, onthe plus side it enables one to pirate the recordingwith no guilt, as the only alternative is tosupport the RIAA and their legion of extortinglawyers. Begin to Hope is very much availablefree of cost on Bittorrent.melodies as it goes, tweaking, adding,subtracting, discovering what else is possiblein this or that direction. This is evidentalso in her amazing vocal phrasing, whereeven choruses with the same words aresung totally di¤erently within the samesong—most musicians arelucky to find a single goodphrasing, while Spektor candevise new ones that fit perfectlyat every intersection.As a songwriter, she clearlydoesn’t believe in “goodenough.” The dynamic qualityfound in her songs alsoextends itself to the contentof the entire album.Spektor explores the various timbresof her voice, including a breathy, angelichigh register and a Billie Holiday-like lowerregister that she often allows to break intoa trumpet-like tone quality. She often usesa jazzy vibrato and sliding tones in hervoice’s middle register. 2Her lyrics also vary highly by song, eachto fit it’s own unique purpose, from obliqueto personal to fanciful. She is wise withoutresorting to cleverness, andoften tells stories that resolvein unexpected ways. It is a lovea¤air with the world and shetells it like this, “Now this ishow it works / You peer insideyourself / You take the thingsyou like / And try to love thethings you took / And then youtake that love you made / Andstick it into some / Someoneelse’s heart / Pumping someoneelse’s blood / And walking arm in arm/ You hope it don’t get harmed / But evenif it does / You’ll just do it all again.”In Lieu of a Review:“A for Anarchy”Responds toV for VendettaWhenever Hollywood stoops to cash inon discontent with movies such as FightClub, certain elements of the radical milieuparalyze themselves in spectators’ debatesabout whether this can help breed andmobilize opposition. Hollywood wouldn’tmake any money on these movies if theydidn’t speak to something in people, but2 Thanks Wikipedia!REVIEWSthe capitalist media won’t organize a revolutionarystruggle for us, either—thereare few less empowering activities thansitting in collective isolation with yourfellow consumers watching your dreamsdisfigured on a silver screen. It’s pointlessto debate the revolutionary potential ofcorporate depictions of resistance—theimportant question is what we do to takeadvantage of whatever opportunitiesour foes give usto organize ourselves.When Hollywood releasedits adaptation of AlanMoore’s comic book V forVendetta, a small networkof anarchists set out to seizethat opportunity. In the book,a masked insurrectionaryanarchist, “V,” takes on afascist government and inspiresan anarchist revolution. The moviedispensed with the explicit anarchism andmuch of Moore’s finesse, but retained theessential storyline of a lone genius strugglingto topple a totalitarian regime. Inthe current climate of intensifying staterepression, this plot could be expectedto draw people with a bone to pick withthose in authority.As moviegoers exited Manhattan theaterson opening weekend, they were met by“V”—an individual in a tall hat, smiling GuyFawkes mask, black clothes, big belt, cloak,and daggers—who handed them anarchistpropaganda complete with panels from thegraphic novel. Throughout the city, postersfor the movie were decorated with wordballoons declaring “V For Vendetta? A ForPage 100 : Reviews : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : Reviews : Page 101

Anarchy!” The handouts were posted onlinealong with tactical tips for distributingthem, so others could try this approach intheir own communities.In cooperation with Spanish anarchistswho had initiated their own campaign,the “A for Anarchy” group went on tocoordinate an international day of actiontimed to coincide with the release of thefilm overseas. This happened to be taxday, providing a point of departure forstreet theater in downtown New York City.These and other actions received corporatemedia coverage; one participant spokeabout anarchism for twenty minutes on aCanadian radio station. Inspired by theirexperiences, some participants took tostaying in costume on subways and busesto provoke further discussions.If the review section of every anarchistperiodical was full of stories like this one,we might stand a chance of getting theanarchist alternative out there as the primaryopposition to capitalism. This kind ofengagement with mainstream culture willget us a lot farther than reviews of otheranarchist projects, which degenerate all toooften into insular bickering. The latter areimportant insofar as they sustain today’sanarchist community, but we have to bethinking a lot bigger than that if we’re goingto save the world.For further information on this particularproject, visit www.aforanarchy.com.Moore’s book is also worth reading, or atleast passing on to your nephews.The New WorldAt the most simplistic level this is a retellingof the Pocahontas legend, though looselyfollowed to such a degree that the femalelead is never called Pocahontas or by anyother name. But the film is not plot driven,and though there is a plot to follow, thefocus of the movie is on the characters andthe ways they interact with circumstance.It is a movie about loss, decay, and death,and also of course about lifeand birth—and perhaps mostof all about the ambivalenceof the natural world towardsall of these things.Director Terrence Malick’sfilms (Badlands, Days ofHeaven, The Thin Red Line) aregenuinely unlike those of anyother filmmaker, and this isespecially true in regards to themovies that played alongsidethis one at your local multiplex.With each film he gets closer to rendering hisvision, deftly defying genres and the traditionalexpectations of feature films.The story-telling skips from momentto moment, not always showing the pathfrom a to b. It shows the tiny details, nearlyalways disconnected from the linear eventsthat would proceed or follow, as if to say,the procedure is not important: this, here, iswhat happens, and here, it is happening. Thefilms begs you to meditate on what youare seeing, to fit what you see into yourlife and your world, to see how its beautyand horror reflect on your own. Malickdesperately wants you to consider the filmas an indistinguishable part of everythingelse. He tries valiantly to get out of the wayof his movie; he wants the movie to tellitself as truly as possible, and to shape ithimself as little as possible.For this film, Malick and cinematographerEmmanuel Lubezki shot over onemillion feet of film, of which 12,000 madeit into the final cut—justover 1%. I would guess thatMalick’s style of filmmakingis to get all of the elementsassembled, throw them together,and film everything,using the editing process tocreate the narrative and totake advantage of every happyaccident and unplannedsynergy. A story from theset supports this: during ascene between two of theleads, a grasshopper leapt into frame andMalick told the actors to forget about thescene, directing the female lead to chasethe grasshopper around while the handheldcamera followed her until the filmran out. The grasshopper chase made itinto the final cut.As in The Thin Red Line, the natural worldis a major character and the film constantlyreminds us of the setting of all the eventswith magnificent, flowing shots of the landand equally rigid and arranged shots of theEnglish capital and royal gardens.Malick does not hide behind irony oruse unnecessary cleverness to appearmore unique than he is—this film is notabout unique ideas, but primal ones. Aswith any great truths, elemental notionsabout life cannot be narrated or dictatedbut only evoked, as with a poem.We anarchists tend to analyze failure,sadness, and dysfunction as symptomsand look for solutions as well as placesto lay blame—someone needs to do that,right?—but this movie is best viewed withoutthat political eye. The loss here is not apolitical loss, but the inevitable loss of life.At the end, when the protagonist says to themutineer during a sober and sad reunion,“Did you find your Indies, John? You shall,”and he replies, “I may have sailed pastthem,” we know what he does not—thatthere was no other way for it to be.Fill in the blanks according to your infighting needs.Guaranteed to provoke endless sectarian bickeringwherever applied! Not for use with mutual aid, constructivecriticism, or intelligent debate. Keep out of reach of thosefreshly exposed to anarchism. For best results, apply inconjunction with extended internet use.1. Project or undertaking2. Adversary of choice3. Synonym for “privileged”4. Invented category (e.g., “lifestyle anarchists,”“organizationalists”)5. Noun with “ism” fastened incongruously on the end6. Statement of obvious fact7. Deplorable or untenable philosophical position8. Worthwhile activity9. Indefensible activity10. Ideological position ending in “ism”11. Distant historical event or era12. Recent historical event, identified only by the name ofthe city in which it took place13. Invented creed (referring back to “4,” above)14. Gerund signifying unconscionable lifestyle choice (e.g.,“working on Wall Street”)15. One aspect of current human relations (e.g., “themarket,” “gender”)16. Abstraction guaranteed to receive applause17. Synonym for “person”18. Synonym for “struggle”19. Adjective relating to “15,” above (e.g., “economic,”“sexual”)20. Insulting noun21. Gerund phrase signifying particularly barbarous andstupid behavior (e.g., “running with scissors,” “conflatingMarx’s critique of capital with Hegel’s phenomenology ofthe spirit”)22. Noun ending in “ist,” signifying a believer in one’s faithof choiceAd LibPolemicActivityPage!Once again, another ___(1) from ___(2). Will these ___(3) ___s(4)ever cease spewing their brainless endorsements of ___(5)? Perhaps___(6), but that doesn’t justify their descent into total ___(7). As usual, they equate___(8) with ___(9), deviously misrepresenting the case for ___(10). But from ___(11) to___(12), we’ve seen that all who espouse ___(13) end up ___(14). Those who deny the centrality of___(15) will always end up serving the enemies of ___(16); any intelligent ___(17) must concede thatthere is no ___(18) but the ___(19) ___(18, again).Instead of learning from their mistakes and profiting from the criticism of those more intelligentthan them, these misguided ___s(20) persist in ___(21). How any principled ___(22) could still considerthem to be part of the ___(22, again) milieu in the first place is inexplicable.___(23) and ___(24) will never change the world, and neither will ___(25) ___s(26). The kind of___(27) professed by ___(2, again) only alienates ___(28). As ___(29) once said, only a ___(30) madeup of ___(31) ___(32) can possess the ___(33) ___(34) necessary for the triumph of ___(35).ALL ___(36) TO THE ___(37)! ___(38) ___(39)! FOR ___(16, again) AND ___(10, again)!23. Embarrassing activity24. Pointless activity25. Insulting adjective26. Insulting noun27. Synonym for “nonsense”28. Social demographic one glorifies above all others29. Man whose analytical writings or military deeds aremore widely known than his sexism and pomposity30. Synonym for “army”31. Adjective denoting the quality one most prefers in one’sfollowers or employees32. Member of “28,” above33. Adjective sure to be incomprehensible to readers (e.g.,“ontological”)34. Synonym for “force”35. Some group, doctrine, or state of a≠airs that, shouldit gain ascendancy, will sow misery for generations tocome (e.g., “communism,” “wild nature”)36. Noun denoting something one wants all for oneself(e.g., “power”)37. Front group or abstraction representing oneself38. Imperative verb associated with violence (e.g., “smash,”“destroy,” “abolish”)39. Abstraction with negative associationsOverleaf: A poster design, ready to becopied and pasted around your town! Justfollow the instructions on the poster itself.Page 102 : Reviews : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : And . . . : Page 103

POLICEOFFICER:IT IS YOURJOB TO STOPPEOPLE FROMPUTTING UPPOSTERSSAYINGWHATEVERTHEY WANTCAN YOU?You can post your own messages with paper and wallpaper paste!From the first years of his childhood,his attention is drawn upward to the sky.When night falls and the other youngstersdrop o≠ to sleep or become crabby, he sits,staring into the stars for hours; adults wholook closely at these times see two brightstars reflected in his eyes.Growing into adolescence, he learns thenames of all the constellations, studies currenttheories about galaxies and meteoritesand the life cycles of suns. He goes campingin the hills to see showers of shooting starsprofessors predict; he persuades his parentsto take him to visit observatories on his summervacations. His mother and father, simpleworking people, are encouraging, and for histhirteenth birthday, a friend of the familygives him a rudimentary telescope.Soon he is the most promising of a newgeneration of amateur astronomers. Everynight, he is out scrutinizing the heavensthrough squinting eyes, filling notebookswith observations and interpretations. Hewrites to professionals in the field, andattracts attention for his precocious skill.Institutions pay travel fare for him to presenthis research at their junior symposiums. Everyoneis excited about the career that awaitshim: he will be the first of his family to leavethe village and enter academia.The AstrologerBut a sudden change occurs when hereaches the threshold of adulthood: withoutwarning, his interests shift dramatically tothe occult. Within weeks, he has practicallyabandoned astronomy for its anachronistic,universally derided predecessor, astrology.This new passion cuts through everything hehad made of his life, it consumes him like astronomynever did. His teachers, his parents,and their friends gnash their teeth in frustration,beg him not to throw his life away forsuperstition and hocus pocus, but he is deafto their disapproval. And so he grows up to bea minor figure in this small and obscure field,rather than the celebrated and successful scientisthe was to become. His mother shakesher head sadly whenever she hears news ofthe schoolmates who pursued the calling inwhich he should have eclipsed them.Years later, in the death camps, the starsthese astronomers studied so scientificallylook down upon their plight in silence; gazingup, the learned men see nothing abovebut the smoke of their murdered colleagues,hanging like a guillotine’s blade over themall. But the astrologer, using the arcane artshe has mastered and remembers, tells thefortunes of each fellow inmate every morning,giving them futures to live for when allhope seems gone.Freedom of speech—it’s up to you, America!www.crimethinc.comRolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : And . . . : Page 105a

CrimethInc. Far EastMailorder CatalogRecipes for Disaster: An Anarchist CookbookA 624-page handbook for do-it-yourself subversive activity,illustrated with photographs, technical diagrams,and firsthand accounts. The sixty-two recipesrun the gamut from Aªnity Groups toWheatpasting, stopping along the wayat topics as disparate as Hitchhiking,Sabotage, BehavioralCutups, and SupportingRolling Thunder #2,winter 2006: The precedingissue of this magazinefeatured an extensive critique ofdropping out as revolutionary strategy,coverage of last summer’s protests againstthe G8 in Scotland and mountaintop removalin West Virginia, a retrospective on squattingin northern Europe, and a couple heartrendingworks of fiction. $5Rolling Thunder #1, summer 2005: Ourfirst issue included a massive analysis of thepast decade of direct action at demonstrations,feature articles on consent in sexual relationshipsand alternative conceptions of education,and testimonials from maniacs who squattedtheir own workplaces and set themselves onfire while fighting police, inter alia. $5CrimethInc. Guerilla Film Series, Vol.One—Our first DVD release features two discsloaded with some of the best films in modernanarchist filmmaking: three feature-lengthdocumentaries (Pickaxe, Breaking the Spell, andThe Miami Model) and five short films (threedocumenting various thinktank experimentsand two CrimethInc. essays brought to life bySubMedia). New commentary tracks recordedby the filmmakers are included for the filmsPickaxe, Breaking the Spell, and Auto-Revision.(312 Minutes). $10Days of War, Nights of Love: Crimethinkfor Beginners—Your ticket to a world free ofcharge: the famous invitation to the adventureof overthrowing capitalism, hierarchy, andeverything else, by turns wild-eyed, romantic,and prophetic. $8Evasion—The controversial chronicle of oneboy’s saga of willful unemployment, crime,and vagrancy. $6Off the Map—A punk rock vision quest inthe form of a travel narrative, detailing theSurvivors of DomesticViolence.$12exploits of two women squatting, hitchhiking,and dreaming their way across Europe. $3Rusty String Quartet—Raegan Butcher’snew collection, several hundred poems long,chronicling the first few months followinghis release. $10Stone Hotel—Raegan Butcher’s poemsfrom prison: straightforward, harrowing,and sometimes uplifting. $10Requiem “Storm Heaven” CD— In ninesongs ranging from mournful, muted beautyto operatic hardcore punk to the apocalypticmarching drums of street rioting, they pit rawfury and yearning against everything ugly ina desperate bid to rescue punk rock from itsown inertia—not to mention the rest of usfrom ours. $10The Spectacle “I, Fail” CD—This is thebrand new recording from the Norwegian bandwe consider to be the best playing hardcoretoday. It’s slower, darker, and even more carefullyrefined than “Rope or Guillotine.” $10Zegota 7”—Two new songs from the longrunningflagship band of eclectic and idealistichardcore punk: an unabashed streetprotest anthem entitled “Anarchist CheerleaderSong,” and a spine-tingling cover ofthe traditional spiritual “Sinner Man” á laNina Simone. $4Umlaut “Total Disfuckingcography” CD—38 songs and 80 pages of depraved terroristpunk rock and propaganda from the mostFinnishbandof all time. Featuressworn enemiesof Catharsis. $9The Spectacle “Rope or Guillotine”CD—This album picks up where Catharsis,His Hero Is Gone, early Gehenna, and Godspeed,You Black Emperor! left o¤. $10Zegota “Reclaim!” CD—The third widerangingfull-length album from these expatriateartistic geniuses. $8Face Down In Shit “Passing Times” CD—These tortured maniacs twist the punk andstoner rock traditions into something somehowat once ugly and beautiful. $10Sandman “The Long Walk Home” CD—Chris Sand plays achingly personal countryfolk music, sweet and pure and simple. $6Countdown to Putsch “Interventions inHegemony” double CD—C-to-P blends punkrock, free jazz, and radical theater to createone of the most daring experimental works tocome out of the do-it-yourself milieu. $10Blacken the Skies CD—This was Stef’sband between Catharsis and Requiem; imagineearly Zegota as a d-beat crust band. $9Zegota “Namaste” CD—Seventy-one minutesof improvisation, medley, and soul.Many still consider this the defining Zegotarecording. $10Catharsis “Passion” CD—Even seven yearsafter it was recorded, what can be said aboutthis album? We hoped it would destroy theworld and remake it utterly, and for some,it almost did. $10Prices include postage.CrimethInc. Far EastP.O. Box 13998Salem, OR 97301 USAwww.crimethinc.comCrimethInc.ShareholderReportAn IncompleteReport on andCritical Analysis ofa Decade of ActivityOn April Fool’s Day, 2006, we announced the third printing of our freeanarchist primer Fighting For Our Lives. This printing of 150,000 broughtthe total print run of that pamphlet to 500,000 copies, the target we’d setfor the project three and a half years earlier. Some of us took advantageof the occasion to compile a review of the activity that had taken placeunder the CrimethInc. moniker in the preceding decade.That report is reproduced here in its entirety in hope of inspiring oroutraging others into ambitious activity of their own. As an accounting,it is necessarily incomplete; it only covers the most obvious andquantifiable activities that could be discerned from the vantage pointof the CrimethInc. Far East distribution hub. All the same, it may helpto establish the scope of what has been accomplished and of what yetremains to be done.Page 106 : And . . . : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : And . . . : Page 107

A Mediocre RecordAs of April 1, 2006, to our knowledge,CrimethInc. operatives produced, distributed,and/or organized:Free Material-500,000 copies of the free pamphlet FightingFor Our Lives-5 issues of the free paper Harbinger at upto 100,000 copies each-at least 6 other free newspapers at up to35,000 copies each-at least 3 newsprint booklets at up to40,000 copies each-at least 4 23”x15” double-sided newsprintposters at up to 75,000 copies each-at least 6 11”x17” printed posters at 5000copies each-at least 10,000 photocopies each ofthe ’zine versions of O¤ the Map andEvasion-countless copies of innumerable other‘zines and posters, almost all at theexpense of corporate franchises-an unknown number of cassettes andburned CDs and DVDs-at least 500,000 stickers for anti-corporatevandalismCommodities-at least 10 books totaling over 100,000copies, ranging from a children’s bookto a tactical direct action manual-2 issues of the journal Rolling Thunder at3000 copies each-the final 7 issues of the magazine InsideFront, each with an accompanying CDor vinyl record, at 3000 copies each-at least 30 CD or vinyl music releases atup to 5000 copies each for bands fromthree continents; some of these bandshave toured those continents extensively,distributing literature in the process andsometimes o¤ering workshops-at least 1 videocassette and 1 two-discDVD (the latter compiling several filmspreviously released individually) at 1500and 2000 copies, respectivelyOutreach and Engagement-at least 12 multimedia tours, in whichover 75 people participated-4 national convergences, the last of whichattracted approximately 200 participants(and at least 1 FBI infiltrator,whom we count neither as a participantnor as a human being)-an unknown number of festivals, speakingengagements, gatherings, presentations,workshops, guerrilla “booksignings,” and other events-involvement in several nationwide campaigns,including the protests againstthe Iraq war and the FTAA agreements,as well as the “Don’t Just Vote, Get Active”campaign that culminated duringthe 2004 elections; ELF actions werealso claimed by CrimethInc. splintergroups, though no other CrimethInc.operatives have had knowledge of orinvolvement in these actionsAccessibility-at least 10 websites, the most widely used ofwhich received at least 2 million uniquevisitors; of the 25 posters, pamphlets,and papers available on it as of this report,the most frequently accessed wasdownloaded over 150,000 times-corporate coverage from the San FranciscoBay Guardian to Newsweek, despitea policy of non-cooperation with thecapitalist media (granted, this coveragedealt with the supposed threats CrimethInc.poses to civil society as often asit focused on specific projects)-contributions to countless other independentmedia projects; in the punkunderground, for example, this includedpull-out sections in Slug and Lettuceand Profane Existence and a columnthat appears regularly in MaximumRock’n’Roll for 6 years running-CrimethInc. material appeared in at least12 languages, either as new material orin translation; Harbinger alone has appearedin German-, Portuguese-, andSpanish-language versions, each in aprint run of thousands and the last ofthose being a collaboration betweengroups spread across three continents-CrimethInc. material has been stockedby well over 150 US libraries and used,ironically enough, in countless highschool and college coursesThis is what you call mass production;some of these figures really put the“Inc.” in CrimethInc. An economist mightsay that by distributing our wares free ofcharge or for the production costs aloneand operating with a highly motivatedsta¤ that works entirely without pay, weare breaking new ground in free marketcompetition. Ironically, we oppose massproduction, economists, markets, andcompetition—but we’re not interested insimply keeping our hands clean.Nor are we interested in personal gain.To this day, no participant in any of theseprojects has received a dime for his or here¤orts 1 . Everything that can possibly be distributedfor free is, and all proceeds fromsales go immediately into further projects.All our projects are either funded by theirown sales, the sales of other projects,criminal activity, or donations 2 . This is astark contrast to radical publishers whomust give away much of the press runs ofmagazines they hoped to sell, not to mentionmiserly communist splinter groupsthat sell even their outreach material.We do almost all our own distribution,working out of a few main hubs anda scattering of other nerve centers; thisenables us to make sure that our materialis always available through independentchannels before we use corporate andinstitutional means to get it to those whomight not otherwise see it 3 . We produceeverything without barcodes, regardingthem as a noxious concession to the corporatemarket 4 .The limited accounting above, ofcourse, leaves out the best endeavors,the unique and irreproducible ones. I recalla letter from a young person in a smalltown in the Midwest, reporting on theactivities of the local CrimethInc. cell over1 That Reagan Butcher, whose poetry first appearedin the CrimethInc. Letters series while hewas in prison, has received $253 in royalties (asdocumented in his poem “My Publishers”)—hardlyenough to ease the diªcult transition from incarcerationto wage slavery, we fear—simply identifieshim as a fellow traveler who contributes to projectswithout actually acting as part of the collective.This should be clear anyway, as he writes underhis own name.2 Rumors that CrimethInc. is financed by trustfunds or foreign governments are malicious fabrications.3 For the record, Wal-Mart has CrimethInc. bookson their website not because they stock them butbecause they list as “available” all books theycan order through corporate distributors. Afterinitially balking at working with such distributors,we eventually had to compromise so that librariesthat do not work with independent distributorscould obtain our books.4 Approximately 5% of our books have been soldwith barcode stickers on them, to make thingseasier for distributors, such as AK Press, whohave requested this.the preceding months: these includeddistributing free pirated CDRs of RageAgainst the Machine and Ani DiFrancoto middle school students and pushingover a bike cop (and getting away withit!). Likewise, the “workshop” at the YouthLiberation conference in Florida at the endof 2000 that ended in the participantsdancing naked around a fire in the rain,while remembered by many as a high watermark of excitement and transformation,remains invisible to history.These are just the projects that havetaken place under the CrimethInc. moniker,not to speak of all the other activities ofthose who have sometimes participatedin these. Everything described here hasbeen achieved in collaboration with countlessother groups and individuals—to beprecise, it is all the result of the collaborationof various groups and individuals,sometimes under the CrimethInc. nameand sometimes not. Some have accusedCrimethInc. of being elitist or alienating,but it is precisely the radically participatoryand decentralized aspects of the CrimethInc.experiment that have enabled it tobe this far-reaching.This is not to say there is no room forimprovement—far from it! But this recordshould satisfactorily refute the charges ofcertain ideologues that informal networksand autonomous cells are incapable of sustained,e¤ective activity. Whatever anyonemight say against decentralization andvoluntary association, they work for us.Likewise, our work over the past decadeattests to the tremendous power individualscan discover in themselves and theircommunities when they extract even a partof their lives from the machinery of capitalismto invest in the liberation struggle. Youcan accuse us ex-workers of many things,but idleness is not one of them.Abject FailureAll this productivity and activity, ofcourse, indicates only one thing: the cataclysmicdefeat of the CrimethInc. projectthus far. We set out to raze Western civilizationto the ground, and stocked its librariesinstead. We began as iconoclasts, andbecame icons. Our first forays into themedia were calculated to cast doubt uponthemselves as well as all other media (hencethe misattributed quotes, recontextualizedimages, and vicious sarcasm); our morerecent mass-produced tracts unironicallyadopt a tone of earnest proselytizing, asif the ideas and skills thus conveyed couldsomehow outweigh the negative e¤ectsof mass production and mediated communication.Starting out free of ideologicalcommitments, we eventually settled intoanarchism because it seemed the most freeof dogma, only to become a mainstay of thatmilieu with all the usual responsibilities ofgood citizenship. Our quixotic assault onhistory has become a part of history—andnow here we are making it easier on thebiographers with a retrospective!We have achieved moments of liberationin which we leave behind the worldof hierarchy and powerlessness and despair;these cannot be discounted. Butthus far, when the dust has cleared aftereach such departure, the old order hasreestablished itself—and we have accruedmore inertia, slowly becoming a part ofthe world we wish to destroy. Today, aninternet search for “CrimethInc.” turnsup more results than “crimethink”: like somany other organs of resistance, we runthe risk of supplanting the original objectof our struggle.Of course, this is not necessarily for theworst. Destroying CrimethInc. will be nomore diªcult than destroying the capitalistsystem that gave rise to it. The CrimethInc.vehicle—a memberless underground, afront group for those opposed to frontgroups but in need of anonymity—wascreated to be abandoned, and none of usis foolish enough to conflate this fabricationwith the unique and amazing humanbeings we all are in real life. Unfortunately,as capitalism, hierarchy, and miserablistindi¤erence still hold sway across the world,all no less noxious than CrimethInc. itself,we are not ready to set fire to our Frankenstein’smonster just yet. The perfectmurder-suicide, to extend the metaphor asfar as our reluctant pacifist hearts permit,will require long and careful planning.Besides, every numbskull announcesthat “[fill in the blank] isn’t like the olddays!” as soon as he learns to talk. BlackStar North, an obscure and short-livedsplinter group that otherwise would probablynever be mentioned again, once issueda demand that CrimethInc. disband—anappeal akin to calling on Food Not Bombsto quit serving, as if it was just a matter ofbeseeching the board of directors to call thewhole thing o¤. That was at the beginningof 2001, when we had accomplished so littleof what lay before us! However disillusionedwe are with our own e¤orts, we are evenmore disillusioned with disillusionment andcapitulation—strategies which, sad to tell,have been tested over and over in radicalcircles, always with the same e¤ects. No,we are not done yet—we have hardly com-Page 108 : And . . . : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : And . . . : Page 109

pleted the first phase of this experiment,and distributing 500,000 papers is hardlycomparable to the full-scale revolutions inwhich we hope to participate.Going Through theMotionsResistance as a whole is an ebb andflow of movements that replenishes itselffrom the undi¤erentiated masses 5 throughthe same processes by which CrimethInc.has been assimilated into today’s anarchistmilieu. All who have thus far constitutedthe CrimethInc. experiment emerged fromthis uncommitted mass; we have made ourways to resistance individually or in smallgroups, developing certain skills (and failingto develop others) in this process, eventuallyfinding one another and establishingcommon cause and reference points aspart of a broader social current.Unfortunately, just as the masses fromwhich we appeared are characterized byinertia, circles of resistance su¤er frominertia of their own. This symmetry does alot to explain the persistence of the statusquo: as long as a society is divided cleanlyinto opposing camps, each rigid and predictable,it remains essentially static.When contradictions deepen betweenthe lives people lead and the lives theydesire and believe to be possible, the resultingtremors dislodge new dissidents from5 For the purposes of this analysis, the only commonquality that unites this mass is the fact thatnone of its constituents consider themselves tobe revolutionaries. This is precisely the formless,infinite mass that certain organizers so ardentlywish to win over to the revolution; by definition,this is impossible, for whenever an individual orgroup joins the resistance they step forward outof that mass. No wonder whenever one of thoseorganizers looks around a meeting, he fails to seeThe People he believes to be the proper object ofhis e¤orts.the ranks of the complacent; transformingthemselves, they wash in waves into thecamps of resistance. The fundamental goalof most CrimethInc. projects, accordingly,has not been to fortify one camp, but todeepen the widespread contradictions thatgive rise to social instability. One mightargue that it is not resistance movementsthemselves that make social change somuch as it is contagious examples of transformation;working from this proposition,one might further hypothesize that thoseactually in the midst of transformation havemore to o¤er to the project of revolutionthan partisans of revolution who have notchanged in thirty years. The former maynot have thought through all their politicsand tactics yet, but their inconsistency andawkwardness are balanced out by flexibility,momentum, and optimism, not to mentionthe relationships they retain from theirformer lives. Once their new identities asradicals have crystallized, the roles theyplay in social upheavals are likely to be lessand less dynamic: they can still fight, ofcourse, perhaps with increasing expertise,but only from a fixed position 6 .Hence the antagonism towards theestablished radical milieu that characterizedearly CrimethInc. projects: it wasthe bravado of rebels savoring weightlessfreedom while they still possessed it, knowingthey were doomed to be isolated andimmobilized within that milieu eventually.For good or ill, that phase is over now.CrimethInc. is a known quantity. The originalvague inclinations towards liberationhave solidified into a concrete program,and in the process much that was muddled6 Earth First! is one of many radical institutions thatbegan as unique, if problematic, manifestations ofdiscontent only to be slowly absorbed into a morehomogeneous culture of resistance.or just plain juvenile has been dispensedwith—but from this point on, CrimethInc.must do without all advantages save thoseof perseverance and pervasiveness, or elsesomehow defy the chains of causality towrest free from history and repeat the processof development all over again.This is one of our hard-won lessons: inorder that resistance remain diverse andorganic, upstart dissidents should preserveas long as possible all that is autonomousand anomalous about their revolts. Whenevera new dissident individual, group, ortendency appears, established radicals rushto engage them in dialogue; in the course ofthis dialogue, however contentious it maybe, the reference points of the neophytesshift slowly towards those of the old guardand away from those of the rest of thepopulation. Those who desire to resistbeing quarantined in the existing radicalmilieu should be sure that the bulk of theirdialogue takes place with others who do notyet have rigid political commitments.Above all, it is necessary to pick theright enemies. One’s enemies determineone’s actions more decisively than anyother factor, and there are always petulantradicals ready to incapacitate others bylocking them in irrelevant debates. Thosewho wish to keep their hands free for thestruggles that really matter must learnwhen to protect themselves by refusing todefend themselves, just as they must learnto benefit from criticism even when it isnot intended constructively. CrimethInc.exists to engage capitalism in a fight to thedeath, not to battle it out with other radicalsplinter groups in a war of attrition.We have learned to keep the radicalcommunity behind us, as it were, to drawideas and inspiration from it while facingoutward to the rest of the world. Experiencehas shown that little constructive criticismcan be expected from ideologues with fixedagendas—their critiques of CrimethInc. material,which almost always bypass contentto focus on reputation, show that they literallycannot read—but it is still of paramountimportance to learn from and coordinatewith others, and to collaborate wheneverpossible. Even the most entrenched cancreate unpredictable situations by joiningforces with unlikely allies.Low PointsAmong other things, CrimethInc. hasbeen an experiment in structure. In adaptingthe decentralized, radically participatoryapproach of Food Not Bombs and theEarth Liberation Front to the project ofpropaganda outreach, we have attemptedto put whatever notoriety we win for ourselvesat the disposal of all. The objectionsof traditionalists that this approach couldnot provide enough control over who actsas CrimethInc. have not been borne outby reality: neither fascists nor communistsnor liberals have attempted to hijack theCrimethInc. bullet mid-trajectory 7 .On the contrary, while thousands haveassociated themselves with the CrimethInc.banner, comparatively few have taken ownershipof it to the point of carrying on longtermactivity beneath it. To some extent,we are victims of the success of a few wellknownCrimethInc. nuclei, whose e¤ortshave raised the bar so high as to obscurethe e¤orts of other CrimethInc. cells andthe possibility of more such e¤orts. Whileour decentralized structure and emphasison anonymous participation have servedto protect participants from the varioushazards of celebrity, they have not suªcedto collectivize CrimethInc. entirely. Thisshould not come as a surprise: it is not aninsignia that enables people to do things,but access to resources, experience to drawupon, and above all the feeling that one isentitled to act. Until the more establishedCrimethInc. cells are able to do more toextend these resources to others, it will beoptimistic to expect anything di¤erent.So, like most other revolutionaries todate, we have failed to decentralize power7 Perhaps those who are still concerned aboutthis issue should suspend their notions aboutintellectual property long enough to publish somethingas CrimethInc. themselves, to show us theerror of our ways!within our own ranks as well as withinsociety at large. Fortunately, unlike theBolsheviks after the Russian Revolution, wehardly have a monopoly on power—mostof the power in this society is still in thehands of capitalists and, less obviously,the dutiful citizens who serve them. Ourstrategy is not to seize that power ourselvesin naive hope of redistributing it, but toshare tactics by which others can seize itthemselves. Whatever we’re doing wrong,others can do better.And now (drum roll, please), the singlegreatest shortcoming of all our e¤orts thusfar. No, it hasn’t been our contention thatthose who can should experiment with confrontationalunemployment as a means tofocus on revolutionary struggle—seriously,would it have been better if we’d spent allthese years working for the man? Nor hasit been our failure to address the needs of“the” working class: those who desire amonopoly on the political organizing ofworking people would hardly waste somuch bile on us if our e¤orts were of nointerest to their target audience.Far worse: all too often, we’ve failedto follow up our outreach e¤orts withconcrete opportunities for people to connectwith one another. Of the scores whohave traveled to various CrimethInc. addresseshoping to join a standing armyof revolutionaries, of the thousands whohave written letters to those addressesbeseeching the recipients to direct themto radical communities in which to takecontrol of their lives, few have receivedmore than words of encouragement fortheir pains; our resources were stretchedthin enough as it was just collating stolenphotocopies. Nobody can save anyone thetrouble of developing initiative and experiencefor herself or himself; but peopledevelop their abilities in communities,and more often than not we have failed tobring people together so this could takeplace. Whenever we have been able to doso, the results have been explosive; thismakes all these missed opportunities allthe more tragic.We have counted on anarchist communitiesat large to be available to thosewho are inspired by our projects, but alltoo often this has not been the case. Thefocus on lifestyle as an end in itself amongpassive consumers of CrimethInc. literature,which has maddened its authors aswell as their critics, has probably stemmedfrom this dearth of other points of departure.This is the great failure of thepast ten years, the one that has perhapsmade the di¤erence between agitationand insurrection. Simply publishing andagitating is not enough; those of us whoare already active need to put more energyinto fostering networks and keeping themaccessible to new participants. This mustbe an even higher priority than propagandaand outreach if the latter are to be of anyuse—that is to say, if the e¤orts of the nextten years are to produce di¤erent resultsthan those of the past ten.The Anti-ClimaxOver the past decade, CrimethInc. has atsome points been literally one person alone,abandoned by all, desperately strugglingto crack the code for collective liberationbefore starving to death—and at othertimes, a crack team of seasoned comradesmaintaining long-term projects, a crowdof hundreds suddenly erupting into thestreet, a vibrant international network ofthousands. If anything, we have learned thevalue of dreaming big, of patiently maintainingour spirits through diªcult periods andgoing all out when the time is right.We still have some tricks up oursleeve—perhaps we’ve lost the elementof surprise, but we never thought we’dlive to see the opportunities we have now.Even so, we won’t be the ones to win thisstruggle. The weapons we’re fighting withcannot win it. 500,000 unique anarchistprojects could pose a real threat; the factthat we have to make 500,000 identicalcopies of a single one is an admission ofdefeat, albeit an optimistic one. The onlyreal value CrimethInc. can have is as achallenge to provoke others into moreambitious revolutionary action. This isour plea to you, if you care one whit forliberation, whether or not you’ve ever beenfond of any of our projects: put everythingwe’ve done to shame. Don’t waste yourbreath criticizing our e¤orts—there’s workto be done. Demonstrate approaches thatwork better than the ones we’ve employed,and we’ll gladly take them up.Perhaps it is necessary to put all thisin plainer language for those who are stillreading as spectators and critics ratherthan comrades-in-arms. So if you please,dear friends:Page 110 : And . . . : Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006Rolling Thunder, Issue Three, Summer 2006 : And . . . : Page 111

PULL OUTHE STOPS!FILL YOURPINE WITHGUNPOW-DER! LIGHTA MATCHIN YOURBRAIN!OUTDO US!OUTDO US!Some of you have laboredhard, as have we—but perhaps it would bebetter to trade all ourcalluses for dynamite.We may yet have the chance.OUR NEWSPAPERS ARE INSTRUMENTS OF WAR

www.crimethinc.com