The next morning, we woke to a gray sky and a lack of Canadian currency. Eventually we boarded the sky train and headed into the heart of the beast. Downtown Vancouver was more like Disney land than a city I had come to love. Zip lines over head buzzed with overjoyed ignorance. Whole skyscrapers became billboards for such contributors as Samsung and RBC. Security forces were of course looming behind this curtain of consumerism, however Friday was mostly uneventful on that front. After perusing through some of the Olympic festivities, such as a film showing in a shipping container, we headed back to downtown for some lunch. On our way we ran into Dale; a homeless man with HIV who was sitting on a milk crate, crying hysterically. While strobe lights, zip lines, and trivia games were held just meters away. We decided to stop and observe for a while, this then turned into one of the most sobering experiences of my life. We stood and sat by dale for the next half hour. Listened to his story and offered as much support as we could. He explained to us that he had been diagnosed with HIV seven years prior and that he was only expected to live for another two. Those who offered money were met with the blunt truth- he didn’t need money, it was useless to him. So we offered our moral support and all the strength we could muster. I stood watching the crowds pass for over 30 minutes. Watching the faces of those heartless desensitized capitalists, pass by. Most gawked, some stopped for a moment until reading he was HIV positive, then continued on as if sickened by that fact. Every man or woman who passed me was met with more and more rage as I absorbed their lack of compassion, and human understanding. One man even said to a nearby pedestrian, “they’re just not use to the homeless.” From that moment on I knew the seriousness of the situation; I had experienced first hand what was at stake, and gazed into the eyes of our enemy.
Three o’clock. We converged at the art museum in down town. My rage from the previous couple hours began to dissipate as I saw the faces of our fellow brothers and sisters. The protest was about to begin and after receiving a sign and listening to a few speakers, we departed. The march would take us to BC Place, outside of where the opening ceremony was to be held. Just after dark we reached the stadium, with around 2000 protesters. We stood and chanted for the next hour or so. The police line that met us there began to grow impatient. With 50 or so officers directly in front of us and 20 horses and more fuzz behind them, the pushing match began. This was however largely uneventful, with much singing, magical thinking, and moments of silence. Needless to say we decided to leave. Again we drown our worries and stress with some whisky.
Saturday morning. With a slight headache and a constant buzzing in my head we departed. A more militant protest was to be held at 8:30 am, and leave from the central train station. We arrived 45 minutes late after being profiled and harassed by police. My knife was snatched off my person and confiscated because they were expecting “civil unrest.” We then disembarked from the sky train and started chasing after the protest, along with several swat vans just blocks away. The protest moved quickly, more like a tornado, leaving news stands and dumpsters in its wake. We finally caught up and joined in. There were around 200 of us. The black bloc is leading as well as tagging nearby cars and signs. Ripping down newsstands and eventually breaking plate glass windows. It was quite the sight to behold. After the window incident the police got a little fed up and the riot cops were brought in. Hundreds of armor clad officers with batons and AR-15’s surrounded us. For the next couple hours we played a game of cat and mouse; trying to stay one step ahead of the police line. Some small clashes broke out and our numbers started to dwindle. Eventually we were cornered and decided it would be a good time to have a dance party in the street. I sat on the side lines. This went on for a good 20 minutes or so. When two swat vans quickly came up behind us, unloaded their cargo of donut guzzling pigs and proceeded to surround the street party. Forty or so people were temporarily detained and then released. This was the end of the march.
We decided to get some lunch following all the excitement and then went to the library for some rest and relaxation. We were to come home this night but before doing so we ran into yet another group of riot cops profiling and detaining a group of individuals’ downtown. Finally before catching the bus, we watched Joe Biden’s motorcade drive by. This was about all the spectacle I could handle and headed home to a real bed and some peace of mind.
Now that I am sitting here typing this, I have had some time to think through the tactics used. It becomes very clear that protests are scripted events. This is in the sense that organizers spend months preparing for a single day, or perhaps a week. These protesters are then met with an oppressive police force, and you can usually count on property damage and police brutality. Once all this occurs many will loose sight of the cause and its ramifications. Mainstream media doesn’t help the matter either. So for effective organizing to occur we must shift our tactics. Whatever actions we embark upon must be sustained, for many weeks, months, or years. This is the only way to achieve change. Protests are a way to voice opposition, not stop an event from occurring. If someone was to stop the Olympics, the last tactic they would use would be a protest. We all need to stop and think about the long term. Protests serve short term interests, people feel good when they protest, however, very little change occurs after such an event. Long term organizing means diverting that energy into forming autonomous communities, capable of sustained efforts.
