Masked Avengers©Linda Dawn Hammond 2001

Joe Heckraiser's Report from the FTAA Summit

Report: Joe Heckraiser
April 19th thru 21st, 2001

Injured Protester Joe Heckraiser©Linda Dawn Hammond 2001

"Surely you have some sense of honour! Of duty! Have the courage to do what is right! Have the courage to disobey orders!" I shouted.

Around this point the head cop, who was doing all of the gassing while the others stood like statues, came over and pointed his grenade launcher at my face from 3 or so feet away. I laughed in disbelief. I had not seen them what I saw later - a police officer, presumably the same one, shot a canister directly into a protestors face from the same distance. His face was covered with pure power and I assume must have been bruised or broken...

They told us There Is No Alternative, that it is the END OF HISTORY, that it is INEVITABLE that millions starve so that a few can live in gluttony. That any nation that disagrees with the rich can face not merely disinvestment, but also lawsuits. Since the right cannot survive actual debate, it tries to crush opposition with hopelessness.

And, as conservatism always has, it failed.

Now they admit the holocaust-dwarfing results of their rule of the third world - but say that there is "no gain without pain." But we all know whose pain and whose gain they speak of. And now they say that their trade deal puts democracy first, and it does - it puts it in the preamble of the agreement, where it is nothing but rhetorical prettiness. But what is important is that they are in retreat.

A19: I meet my fellow professional globaphobes, terrorists, and general extremists. At first I wonder if I am in the wrong place - there are no dredlocks or mohawks, just lots of shiny-faced kids. The ones I talk to all say "I am for free trade BUT..." making them more "moderate" than a third or so of the Canadian population who oppose free trade according to the right-wing National Post. Though none of us have instant soundbites, all of them have plenty to say about the rise of corporate power and the fall of democracy. None of them have been to a full-scale protest. I mention that everyone I know agrees with me, yet "none of them will put their ass on the line" and they nod. Most of them are in the same situation.

A20: I might have gotten some sleep on the bus. Perhaps a minute, perhaps just a few seconds. Oh well.

In Quebec City we see "off-duty" protestors everywhere. I chat with a forty-something woman - one of the dreaded anarchists. I catch a city bus with about 20 protestors and five other folks.

From Laval University I walked in a parade of thousands. Participants included middle aged folks in sports coats with signs like "market economy, not market society" and little old ladies in wheelchairs with anti-Bush signs to guys in Army surplus equipment with anarchist flags, all chatting and getting along fine. I even saw a rich-winger with a sign that read "You are SO naive". I also came across him the next day, this time with a much younger girl following him, with no signs or evidence that she was allowed to have an opinion. Cheerleaders got things going, one group had a song with several verses, the loudest cheer coming from "The Kyoto treaty was a joke, we all hope President Bush will choke".

Note to self: marching for seven miles in springtime wearing long underwear, two pairs of pants, three jackets and three shirts plus two socks and ten sponges (for armour) makes you a bit warm.

Suddenly I hear a crashing sound. Running to the scene of trouble, I set down my signs with "a20.org" written on them and await the corporate media attention. It turns out that what I thought was senseless vandalism of public proterty was actually a small work of genius: the "trashers" had picked the lock on a bus stop advertisement, and then pulled the add out - thus temporarily turning the bus stop from a weapon of consumerism back to public property again. Along the way supporters wave from windows. Other protestors, lots of them elderly, line the route, making the number of participants hard to count. One cleverly animated puppet has an American flag penis screwing the world.

The march stops and starts and goes on forever - perhaps the idea of the organizers was to tire us out, making us less likely to get ourselves into trouble. Ha ha. If anything, it backfired - having come so far, there was no way we would simply come within site of the "Berlin wall" and head for home. Lots of union folks link arms and tell us to continue on away from the fence - treating us like children IMO. I and thousands others stay beside the fence.

At this point there was a lull. Apparently the fence had come down elsewhere, though at the time I had no idea where, so I stayed put at my location, where the rest of the action I describe takes place. The setting is a hill, with two fenced-in hotels containing wealthy delegates at the top, and a working class neighbourhood at the bottom. The fence cuts across a wide street, and continues along alleyways. Only the street is defended, the fence could be climbed in seconds in the alleys - at one point it was even possible to crawl under! Nobody did, however, since the fence is the perfect illustration of the point we intend to make: that Reich-wing talk of "bringing down barriers" is only for wealthy elites and bribed politicians. The fence is quickly decorated with flowers, balloons, banners, and flags. The police march forward, packed together behind flower-proof shields, to the tune of Darth Vader's march provided by several protestors including yours truly. Some people climb up and down on the wall of shame, which is looking more and more like a playground. Then it started.

Bang! Bang!

Tear gas! I bring out a scarf and jug of apple cider vinegar. After soaking my own scarf I pass the vinegar along (one person tried to drink it before I explained how to use it.)

Bang! Bang!

People run back from the wall. Images of Ghandi race through my head. I kneel down.

Bang! Bang!

Some people describe the smell of tear gas as RANCID, but I prefer FOUL. It feels like disinfectant on a wound, closes your eyes, and fills your nose with snot. I hold my breath, spit every couple of seconds and generally do what I came here to do - RESIST.

Bang! Bang!

Whatever invisible terrorist is provoking this attack must be very systematic - the tear gas canisters are launched practically like clockwork every minute or so. They are of low quality - most of their evil is spilled on the ground in the form of powder, and wind takes care of the actual gas which spays out for about the amount of time one can hold one's breath. As the wind blows away the gas it takes my fear as well. I continue on my knees to the fence and face off with the police a few feet away.

"You will never defeat us! You never have, you never will! Your gas can blind us but it will never blind our sense of justice!"

Bang! Bang!

"Look at yourselves! Think of what your mother would say!"

Bang! Bang!

"Oh, Now I see. You have me caught in the crushing grip or reason now... Calvin and Hobbes"

Bang! Bang!

"ItÍs not even a very good fence! I could imagine gassing people to protect a really pretty fence, but..."

Bang! Bang!

I needed my eyes washed out. Someone offered to use a spray bottle, but the advantages of blasting my eyeballs out was lost on me so I settle for a simple dribble.

Gradually the tear gas began to take effect, and a few angry people started throwing pieces of gravel at the police in their bullet-proof armour. I noticed that the police were covered with sweat, or perhaps tears, inside their helmets. "Does the tear gas hurt you as well" I asked and one of them nodded. "Why shoot it?! Bush and Cheney think of themselves as such big men, let them do their own dirty work! Why do you suffer for their comfort?"

Bang! Bang!

I found a flower and tied it to the fence. "You guys must hate these - every time we give you flowers, you shoot us!"

Bang! Bang!

"Was that tear gas made by child labourer?! Think about it!" People are taking pictures of me. "Not while I wipe my nose!" Bang! Bang!

"Would you let us in if we all chipped together and bribed our way, like the corporations?!" I turned around and looked at the thousands of blurs behind me. "Some water wouldn't suck" Someone rushed up and helped me wash my face.

Bang! Bang!

Do you have opinions?! What is your idea of Utopia?! Stop shooting and talk for Gawds sake!" Bang! Bang!

"Surely you have some sense of honour! Of duty! Have the courage to do what is right! Have the courage to disobey orders! Let the elites defend their own damned fence!"

Around this point the head cop, who I think was doing all of the gassing while the others stood like statues, came over and pointed his grenade launcher at my face from 3 or so feet away. I laughed in disbelief. If I had seen them what I saw later - a police officer, presumably the same one, shot a canister directly into a protestorÍs face from exactly the same distance. His face was covered with pure powder and I assume must have been bruised or broken.

Eventually, things "de-escalated" as so many people came directly to the fence that it was impossible to throw anything over without risking "friendly fire". In short, protestors ended the cycle of violence. In one of the wild mood swings that makes our movement so interesting, we went from a Palestinian scene to a Woodstock one, dancing in a huge circle and writing messages on the street with sidewalk chalk.

Thus was the day so far - I laughed, I cried, I danced, and now it started all over again. I somehow sensed (somehow one can SENSE in crowds, I have no idea how it works) something down one of the alleys (past a corner of the fence that had been torn right away).

For some unfathomable reason, police were pushing us UP a street, TOWARDS the Summit. Interesting. Things were a bit scarier now, because before there had been a fence between me and police, but now there was none. The police moved with tiny steps, banging their shields and shouting "MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!" to which I replied "WHY! WHY! WHY!" Give us a REASON to move and we will move! Just tell us, is that too much to ask!" This was seriously pissing people off, and without a fence it was possible to throw things directly at the police. At this point I noticed the only example of a breakdown over tactics as a Black-blok protestor nearly came to blows with someone else. Others went around smashing any bottles they could find to prevent them from being thrown.

My group, it turned out, was the Green group (no relation to the political party) which means that we are supposed to be 100% legal. (Yellow is civil disobedience, Red means anything goes). However, no battle plan survives contact with the enemy.

As it got dark, one of the cops spoke into a megaphone, telling us that "the party is over" and that we should stop our "provocative behavior" and head home. Hmmm. Maybe they should have thought about that when they used taxpayers dollars to buy up motel rooms, in hopes that it would keep us from coming. In fact, all it did was keep us on the streets all night, seeing as we had nowhere to sleep. I chanted "Dem-O-Cra-Say - 24 hours a day!"

In fact, my guess is that the crowds only GREW at nightfall. What began as a protest was now an uprising, though one with Beach Balls sailing through the air. Locals, many bringing beer, began to "infiltrate". Obviously they knew nothing of green-yellow-red zones, or the fact that alcohol is supposed to be against the rules in all of them. While I admit that "show us your tits" with a thick French accent is hardly a revolutionary slogan, the locals had no trouble adjusting to our leaderless, rule-less anarchy, and we had no trouble tolerating them. (Sadly, I had too much clothing on and was incapable of showing my tits. But then, he probably was referring to female tits anyway). At one point an empty bus came up the street. It was blocked, and after an argument in French, it went back down the hill. I have no idea what it was there for. Someone picked up litter. So did I, but my feet were killing me and I spent most of the night as a sitting spectator.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

At first I thought it was fireworks. It went nearly vertically, with explosions of sparks, then came down perhaps one hundred yards away from the fence. This was REAL tear gas, of a far greater quantity and quality that the "toy gas" they used during the day, with the media present. They sent it in volleys, and at such a range that it was impossible to throw it back again. Remember this, because this also means it went OVER the heads of the people who were throwing stones and the occasional empty bottle. In fact, the best way to avoid it was to move CLOSER to the fence.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Grenades began to be used, also in volleys. Combined smoke rose several stories into the air. With each attack people would rush down the hill, as others urged them to slow down for fear of a stampede. Then we would stop, wash our eyes, and defiantly walk right back to the fence again. With the introduction of new weapons the cycle of violence had become a spiral - stones were replaced by real rocks. A fire was lit. People were shouting things in French and I doubt it was invitations to debates.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Web videos at the Toronto Video Activist Collective Beach Party Beach Balls, Dancing & Tear Gas

Torches come up. I figure that playing with fire is a little much, and decide to find a nice park bench to sleep on. Despite my massive clothing and armour, I still shiver.

A21:

I eat REAL poutine and leave a huge tip. Everywhere I go are protestors, literally by the busload. I talk to some and try my best to translate the local newspapers. My favorite page was one with a headline reading "Prime Minister criticizes "small group of extremists"" next to a picture of him talking to George Dubya! The right wing National Post had a suitable snobbish headline reading "It's a summit, not an abyss," slamming their competitors in the media for taking interest in what the non-bribed rabble was up to. This paper actually thought something Bush said (IE, whatever Cheney wrote on the cue card) was worth reporting.

I go back to look at the area below the hotels - a streetcleaner has been through but the entire area still smells of tear gas. Though our sidewalk chalk slogans are gone, boarded windows are covered with writing. Stickers and graffiti decorate everything public or corporate - homes and small businesses are untouched. As for the McDonalds that tried to disguise itself, I have no idea what happened.

The huge rally begins- uncountable scores of thousands, I never see the beginning or the end. Old union types with mass-produced signs and annoying whistles chant to nobody in particular, refusing to come within five or so blocks of the fence. Others have more spine, and later I am delighted to find some steelworkers in the midst of the clouds, only to be more delighted by a local guy with a hose, providing everybody with badly needed water.

I came across a black block contingent of about 20 - the dreaded warriors, who, on closer inspection, are mostly very small (they are mostly vegans). They also seemed about 50-50 male to female, though it was hard to tell - ski masks and armour are a bit de-sexing.

I catch a glimpse of the massive armored vehicle, but a massive volley of gas drives me back. I have a bus to catch, so I yell to the police "I just came back to remind you that I will never be silenced!" and am on my way. Another hot, exhausting march, this time through the middle of nowhere. Miles away from the action, I can still see the clouds of gas rising a hundred or so feet in the air. Back at the bus I meet the folks I came with. We had become separated, and despite being at the same place at the same time, had been unable to find each other due to the massive crowds. Later that night, when the reporters left, the police went berserk, attacking with clubs and arresting hundreds, while I was comfy on my bus. I feel like a deserter. Like Bush SHOULD feel.

Final note: Greyhound lost my photos, after my bus has stopped by police for an hour or so they could check Our luggage. Grrr...

The Lessons:

The question of tactics that tore the movement apart after Seattle seems to have been solved partly by the color-coded zone system, but mainly because of lots of tolerance from the yellows and greens, and less randomness among the reds. I assume also that the sheer symbolism of the fence and the rage it put in us, plus massive overwhelming sympathy from the local populace, made it possible to tolerate each other.

The key lesson was solidarity- regardless of why you protest or how. What we need to do is stop focusing on each others alleged imperfections and go about connecting with other movements, getting quiet sympathisers active, and getting the word out to the uninformed and apathetic. One strength was the support from the locals- there was no way that we could be called "outside agitators" by the press. What we need is every day, local work. Big events should serve to energize us for local struggles, not replace them. Besides, as Summits go to dictatorships like Quatar or simply to cyberspace, the Summit-hopping movement will end long before it loses any steam.

Counter Set May 7, 2001