Place de la Bastille 17 September. This is footage from the police lifting a peaceful sit-in of the united marches on Brussels by force.
Comrade Oswaldo playing a guitar solo in front of police at the Bastille.
Two o’ clock in the morning. After a strategic retreat, the indignados are surrounded by police in hooligan gear at the central square of Champigny. They don’t like to be filmed.
Day 54 of the March on Brussels. From Bagneux, 7 km.
Dear people,
The evening before we marched into Paris was like a high school reunion party. Under a dome of blue lights our camp was invaded by familiar faces. Almost all of them were people who participated in the earlier stages of the march, but who couldn’t come along because of personal or professional obligations. “We’ll meet you in Paris”, they said. And here they are. Our march is complete.
"It's love, and they call it revolution"
At breakfast one of our comrades went around painting red hearts on people’s hands, to be waved at bystanders and police. Immediately, a counter alternative was born. The skulls. To differentiate themselves from the love-peace-and-harmony faction, other people started painting skulls and bones on the palms of their hands. There was also an ‘Italian’ with us, who carried both symbols, just to be sure. All the adherences have been diligently noted by the Intelligence commission.
It’s obvious, playfullness has returned to our group. We were longing to have fun with each other after long days and weeks of problems and conflict. We take the streets with flags and banners. This is the great day. We walk down boulevards until we encounter a sign that says ‘Paris’. Photo opportunity.
Just outside the Cité Universitaire we join up with the Mediterranean March and we hold an enormous collective embrace in the middle of the street. Next thing we have to do is organise today’s demonstration. It’s amazing. In the days and weeks before, it had been impossible to coordinate anything, but now that we’re together under direct pressure of time, everything works out. In a quick internal assembly the ideas are collected. Working groups are created immediately. A list of necessities is drawn up, and all things appear out of nowhere. While some comrades are preparing lunch, the others are at work making masks, signs, banners, flags. The scene is invaded by armies of photographers and cameramen.
'Enthusiasm'
'We are not merchandise in the hands of politicians and bankers.'
According to schedule we should have been under way at three to be at the Bastille at six. But we’re Spanish, we take our time. We depart at four and in the end we arrive at the Bastille at nine.
All in all the demonstration was a good one. It wasn’t oceanic, but we were neither just a handful of people. We make a lot of noise. We wave our banners, and every once in a while, small units of four or five indignados detach themselves from the parade to perform the actions we planned. Tapping bank windows and cash dispensers with duck tape, changing the names of the streets with cardboard signs and covering walls and streets with slogans in chalk.
Banker
The police is nervous. They make the big mistake of trying to protect some of the banks. Immediately the indignados are all over them. It makes for a great photo opportunity. When the police officers start running towards the next bank, a group of indignados runs along, shouting and screaming like indian warriors, overtaking them, and lining up to protect to next bank from police.
'Let's reclaim our right to be lazy.'
So yes, playfulness has returned, also in the parade. We have reached Paris, and the route is marked by names that resonate centuries of history. Le ‘Luxembourg’, the monumental seat of the French Directory after the revolution of 1789, the Sorbonne and the Quartier Latin, which have been barricaded many times, most recently in May 1968. Now, just like the rest of the center of Paris, the neighbourhood has become horribly bourgeois. We cross the Seine, we sit in front of the Notre Dame on the Île de la Cité. On the other side of the river we arrive at the Hôtel de Ville. Once it was the seat of the Paris Commune, now the square has been prostituted to host a commercial event promoting the NBA.
While we’re advancing towards the Bank of France, voices reach the head of the march. “They have arrested someone! Come one!” Everybody turns around. The whole march gathers in front of the police vans. People sit down and start to shout. “Let our comrade go! Let our comrade go!” Five minutes, and he’s free. Everyone cheers. The march can go on.
We arrive at the Bank of France. “Coupables! Coupables!” we are shouting while signs are being attached to the walls and the name of the road is changed into ‘Avenue de la Democratie’.
It’s getting dark. We are already hours late. “To the Bastille! To the Bastille!” people say. It sounds like a battle cry. And so off we go, singing. “Paris, rise up! Paris, rise up!” I’m happy to witness this, I would never have thought. But then, it starts to rain.
'The earth gives enough for all'
When we arrive at the Bastille, it’s dark and the rain is pouring down. The police presence is massive. Once we have all arrived on the square the cordon slowly starts to straighten like a belt. In the end we are surrounded, a reduced group of soaked indignados on the pavement of the Bastille. When we try to sit down, the police charge immediately, they start to tear us away.
Welcome to Paris. Chaos is complete. People are wet, tired and hungry. After various hours of apathy, some food supplies are allowed to enter the square. The rain has stopped. But the organisation of a place to camp or to sleep is zero. The Paris indignados have let us down. They knew that police would be implacable. And they haven’t prepared any plan B, C or D. They left us catch a cold on the pavement until someone turned up with the possibility to sleep in a sports hall in the suburbs.
Shivering we march off in tactical retreat. We invade the metro and take the last train to Champigny. But that isn’t the end of it. At the village square we are once again surrounded by thirty police officers, many of them in hooligan outfit. They won’t let us go anywhere until someone from the mayor’s office confirms them that we have authorisation to sleep in the sports center.
Finally, in the early hours, authorisation arrives, and we can officially go to sleep. We learned that Paris is different from the rest of France, and we learned it the hard way. Don’t think that you can occupy a public space as a citizen. You have to be a registered trademark to do that, and you have to pay. If you do so, you can even put up your tents in front of city hall.
Day 51 of the March on Brussels. From Toury, 35 km
Dear people,
In the early days of the revolution I had great fun translating the solemn manifests of the French indignados which had assembled in Place de la Bastille, inspired by what was happening in Puerta del Sol. It was all real, and it was all a game. Together with the people who happened to be there in the Communcations tent at that same particular moment in history, and who spoke better French than me, I answered with resplendent comunicados full of historical and revolutionary winks. “Salut Paris! Ici Madrid! Avez-vouz pris la Place de la Bastille?“
They had, it turned out. But they were never able to hold it. The General Assembly in Puerta del Sol fell silent when the news broke that police were clearing the square with tear gas.
Now, almost four months later, I am camped at three days from Paris with the March on Brussels, and together with my general staff we are gathered around a map of the city and its surroundings. We’re going to plan the road to the Bastille.
The fact is that comrade Cowboy has left the Route commission. He gave up after people had repeatedly ignored his routes to go their own way. The vacuum was filled by comrade Polacco, comrade Vladimir from the Toulouse march, two reconassaince bikers freshly in from Spain, and me. I am the only one who speaks both French and Spanish.
When the map is unfolded, my eyes light up. I quickly note the various possibilities. The original idea is to enter Paris straight from the South and be at Bagneux, at eight kilometres from the center, on Friday evening. We are going to change all that. And we’re going to tell nobody about it until the last moment. It’s going to be a complete surprise. We’re going to Versailles.
Secrecy is of the utmost importance, and I repeat it. We’re going to camp in front of the castle, and we don’t want police to know about until we’re there. Everyone who joins in on the meeting agrees. Complete secrecy. The people from Etampes who are monitoring us from a distance seriously nod. The scene is filmed by two people from Canal +. “Not a word! We’re going to Versailles. It’s going to be fabulous.”
“Is it possible?” someone asks. “Sure it’s possible. We’re the March on Brussels. Look, we’ll take these roads, we cross the fields, we take the paths. We’ll be there before anyone knows what’s happening.”
“Right. You’re in front of the castle. Then what? The day after we are expected in the Universitary City at eleven in the morning. The distance from Versailles is over 25 kilometres. We should get up at five and be marching at six. If we arrive, people will be exhausted.”
It’s true. If we want we can do it. Versailles is a great symbolic photo opportunity, but little else. We have to be practical. In the southern banlieues of Paris we can do actions, hold assemblies, incite the workers. And apart from that, when I look around, I start to have doubts about the effective secrecy of the plan.
We return to the original plan. Bagneux in two days. Comrade Waldo will be waiting there with the local indignados. Then Saturday we march into the city to the rendez-vous point near the Gare d’Austerlitz. In the afternoon, we take the Bastille.
Where do we enter Paris? I look at the names of all the city gates. ‘Oh yes’, I think, and I place my finger down on the map. “Here. We will enter Paris through the Porte d’Italie“, I say, “for sentimental reasons.”
That’s it. Nothing to be proposed to the assembly, because if we do, we’ll never make it to Paris. We will still be here discussing on the route in three days time.
I translate the general idea to comrade Vladimir in French. “If we don’t take Versailles” he says, “we should do something else, something symbolic.” And he comes up with a brilliant idea for a decoy. Something to disorientate the authorities. For obvious reasons I cannot reveal it now. It’s really secret, and it has to be communicated to our people in Paris as fast as possible. But we can’t use mobile phones or email. All our communications are at risk of being intercepted. The only way is to go there in person. Someone will have to jump on a horse and ride to Paris through the night, to bring the dispatch to our liaisons as quickly as possible.
“Who’s willing to do this?” I ask. No-one volunteers.”You can do it”, says someone.
I think about it for a second. I know that the horse won’t be a horse, and it would mean abbandoning the march. I can’t do it. At that moment, enter a messenger. Our people from Paris will be here tomorrow. There’s no need to warn them. We can talk it over in the group and continue as planned.
“Good”, I say, and the map is folded. I’m content. I love this game. “Tomorrow I want a detailed map of the center of the city.”
Love at first sight
Popular Assembly in Etampes
