Re-Occupy!

Acampada Sol, February 3, 2013. Photo via @Desobediencia_

February 4, 1600 hrs.

Dear People,

The Puerta del Sol in Madrid is being occupied since last night. Five people have slept on the square under the equestrian statue to mark the start of an indefinite protest against government corruption and austerity measures. They were baptised ‘#Las5deSol’, and they have been subject to fervent tweeting ever since the sun came up.

Right now, citizens are gathering in the square. According to rumours, there are people occupying in Valencia as well. In Berlin, there was a demonstration against key corruption suspect and visiting prime minister Mariano Rajoy.

At five, there will be a General Assembly in Sol. Today’s call is not only to storm Popular Party headquarters, but also to occupy for as long as the government doesn’t resign.

Keep checking SpanishRevolution.TV, TomaLaTele.TV, @15MBcn_Int and @GlobalRevLive.

The Story of Old Bertie

Madrid, January 5

Dear people,

Many of the immigrants which have come to Spain over the last few years – the ‘welcome’ ones – are English. Most of them have built up a good pension at home and decided to spend their twilight years in the south because they are thoroughly fed up with all aspects of the English climate.

So they come here, they buy a house near the coast, and they stick together in small expat communities, to prevent that their language and customs become contaminated by native Iberian culture.

This is the typical northern pensioner. In Madrid, I have also met the a-typical pensioner, like old Bertie.

Old Bertie is one of the familiar faces in Sol, he was there during the acampada, he was there in the days of Hotel Madrid, and he is still here. You can’t miss him. His swearing is audible from a mile’s distance. And he only speaks straight Liverpudlian.

I once asked him jokingly if he came from Manchester by any chance.

“Fock you, mate.”

I was lucky he left it at that. I risked big time. Old Bertie has beaten up people for far less.

But that’s all in the past. Today, on my last day in Madrid, after all the times we merely saluted each other (“Y’righ, mate?”), we sat down in the garden of the Tabacalera to have a drink and a chat. He told me his story. I don’t know if it’s true, but he tells it with such blunt, candid sincerity that I suspect it is. And besides, he has all the scars to vouch for it.

Back in Liverpool Bertie has spent his life on the dark side of the system ever since he can remember. It was all centred around drugs and violence.

To some, these things are simply an ‘error of the system’. But that’s not true. They are an inherent and intentional part of it.

Drugs and violence mean money, and money is what the system is all about. By outlawing drugs you create a black market on which drugs are sold at outrageous prices. Some people benefit from it, because in the end all money is money, be it black or white. But most people from the ‘scene’ itself don’t benefit from it. As citizens, the small time dealers and junks are simply sacrificed. They end up dead or in prison, and nobody really cares.

Judging from his resume, old Bertie is the worst of the worst. Various cases of armed robbery. Numerous cases of assault. Drug dealing. Attempted murder. Extorsion. Jaywalking. You name it. Back in England he would fuck you up for life, on demand. But not indiscriminately. He had his code of honour. He would never beat up a Scouse (Liverpudlian). “Mostly Manks and Birmies.”

He once stabbed a Liverpool policer officer, and now he speaks about it as if it were a guys’ night out in the pub. “I shouldn’t have done it.” He takes a sip from his beer, he looks me in the eyes. “Let me give you this one lesson in life, mate… Try to avoid it. Whatever you do, try to avoid stabbing a Liverpool police officer. It’ll haunt you for the rest of your life.”

Why did he do it? Well, he had 20.000 quid worth of cocaine in his pocket, and he just panicked.

He got caught, but before he could be judged he cut off part of his ear with a razor. When he was brought to the hospital he took a nurse hostage and managed to escape.

He got caught again, and the whole hospital episode definitely influenced his sentencing for the worse.

All in all old Bertie served fifteen years and six months in prison. He was granted parole twice, and both times it was revoked within a few weeks.

In a money-based society corruption is all around, so there was no shortage of drugs in prison either. Old Bertie was addicted. And he had a reputation of being the most violent of all. If someone on the outside wanted someone on the inside to suffer, they’d call on Bertie. He would tear open a guy’s face in exchange for a shot of heroine.

Now, the years have gone by, Bertie is free again, and he has come to Madrid. “Best focking thing I ever did. It’s so relaxed! Everything is ‘mañana, mañana’, here. I love it! And the girls, they’re great! Even if you’re not shagging them, you can still have a chat!”

Bertie found his peace. He left the hard stuff behind when he came to Sol. He can be mighty obnoxious, but he is a remarkable person. And what amazes me most is that a life spent on the dark side didn’t take the humanity out of him. Quite the contrary. He is completely straightforward. If you show him respect, you’re a mate, and he would kill for you if anyone would try to hurt you. And if you don’t show him respect, then “fock you!”

 A message arrives on Bertie’s phone. “Christ! It’s me mistress.” He stands up. “Got to go, mate. Or she’ll be angry with me.”

 And so there he goes, bad ass Bertie. I’m happy to see he has found someone who can handle him.

The Spirit of Christmas

Madrid, December 23

“Wake up! We’re late! We have to hurry!”

“Huh? What’s going on?”

“Why, it’s Christmas!”

“Relax, Oscar. It’s only the 23rd. Christmas Eve isn’t until tomorrow.”

“That’s what you say. What you obviously don’t know is that good old Santa isn’t always on time.” I’m sitting on the edge of the bed with my shirt inside out, putting on my shoes. “It doesn’t happen very often, I admit it, but some years, Santa comes early. Sometimes he’s already here on the 23rd, or even on the 22nd. He takes care of Christmas in a hurrry and on the evening of the 24th, before people know what’s going on, he’s already back on the North Pole!”

 “You’re talking bullshit, Oscar. Like always.”

I’m putting on my coat, my hat. “Oh no. It’s true,” I say. “Santa likes to play with people. Once upon a time he even came to town in the midst of summer. You should have seen him, on the beach in his red coat shouting: ‘Ho! Ho! Ho! It’s Christmas everybody! Right here, right now!’”

 “Humbug!”

 “You better believe it. And there’s worse: when Santa gets angry, really angry, there won’t be Christmas at all!” I open the door. “Last time that happened was in 1824, if I remember well,” I stop to think, I look up at the ceiling, “or was it 1828? I don’t know, I should look it up in Wikipedia. Anyway – my voice gets really serious at this point – a year without Christmas! You don’t want that to happen, do you?”

 “Ehm… well…”

 “I thought so!”

I slam the door and I’m on my way.

Once I get to the centre of town I have to wade my way through thousands and thousands of desperate last minute Christmas shoppers. I look at their worried faces. Poor devils, they still have to buy presents for kids, aunts, uncles, nephews and nieces. And then there’s Christmas dinner. What are they going to make? What about the sauce? I feel sorry for them. But fortunately, there’s hope. In a couple of days it’ll all be over.

When I get to Puerta del Sol, the madness is complete. There’s no way of crossing the square. It’s a sea of lost souls. And in between, there are dozens and dozens of animated characters trying to entertain the crowd. I see Mickey and Minnie Mouse in Christmas outfit, I see the Pink Panther, Super Mario, various captain Jack Sparrows and Spungebobs Squarepants. I see aliens, cowboys and numerous cartoon characters that I don’t even know. ‘Is this Puerta del Sol?’ I ask myself. ‘Whatever happened to the acampada? Whatever happened to the 15M?’

 It’s already dark when I finally manage to get to the other side of the square. The 15M has gathered on the Plaza del Carmen. This is where the Christmas Working Group is in assembly. It turns out they have been here for over seven hours to discuss what to do about Christmas.

 I spot Santa Claus on the edge of the square. I knew it! He is already here. I walk up to him. “Hey Santa, how’s it going?”

He sighs. “It’s chaos, Oscar,” he says, “I’ve asked a speaking turn this morning, and they still haven’t reached a decision about whether I should be allowed to speak in assembly. Most people are convinced that I’m an infiltrator. That I work for the banks and the state and the financial institutions. They think that Christmas is the quintessential counterrevolutionary holiday, that it’s all about consumerism, and celebrating the status-quo.”

 “I see.”

I ask for a speaking turn myself. It’s a miracle. Before the stroke of midnight I convince people that Santa deserves to speak, not as Santa Claus, but as a private citizen.

 So when the chimes have sounded twelve times, silence descends upon the square, and Santa Claus steps forward to speak.

“Dear comrades…”

 “Comrades feminine, and comrades masculine! Please use an inclusive way of speach, mister Claus!” someone yells.

 “Ssst!” answers the moderator, “let him speak!”

 “Very well,” Santa says, “comrades of all genders, good evening.” He takes a deep breath. “Many of you think that Christmas is all about consumerism. About buying presents. About stuffing yourself all day long without thinking that there are people in need, people who are hungry, not just in far away places you only see on the news, but also right here, in Spain.” Santa pauses, he has got people’s attention. “It’s all true. This is what Christmas has become. A celebration of exuberance. A time for the lonely to feel more lonely than ever, a time for the needy to feel excluded of all the wealth that we as humans have been able to create.

 “But there is something more,” he says, “something timeless.” At this point he takes off his beard and his red hat. “Look at me. I’m not Santa Claus. I’m one of you. I work for three euros an hour at the Corte Inglés department store, entertaining shoppers in this silly costume.”

A wave of awe rises up from the crowd. Santa isn’t real  after all! Two girls faint on the spot.

 “So there’s something more,” Santa says. “You can’t see it, you can’t hear it, but if you’re lucky, you can feel it. It’s called the Spirit of Christmas…

 “The Spirit of Christmas isn’t about presents and food and loneliness. It’s about being kind, it’s about listening to each other, like you are doing right now. It took you some time, but finally you did decide to let me speak, and that makes me feel happy. I can feel that the spirit is upon us.

 “Mind you that this is something extraordinary. The spirit isn’t always here. As a matter of fact, most of the time it’s absent. And although we call it the Spirit of Christmas, it isn’t confined to this particular time of year…

 “Knowingly or not, you have carried the Spirit of Christmas with you for a long time. And this year, finally, you have all decided to share it with one and other.” Santa raises his arm. “The spirit was here on the fifteenth of May, when you decided to camp in Puerta del Sol. And ever since, each time you have provided a meal for the hungry, each time you have prevented a family from being evicted, each time you have occupied a home for those who were, each time you gave people a voice in your assemblies and lent your ear to listen to them, the Spirit of Christmas was upon you.

 “Now the jolly season has arrived. You haven’t yet changed the world, but you have made a start. Carry on, comrades. Don’t be impatient, and don’t despair. As long as you carry the Spirit of Christmas along with you, and share it with others, you will succeed.”

A Climate Carol

Scrooge and the Spirit of Climate Future

Madrid, December 14

Dear people,

I’ve been watching too many global warming documentaries lately. It’s a dangerous subject. If you start to think too much about the possible implications, you could freak out. A friend of mine who specialises in thinking, once told me of his sincere concern for man kind. “I fear the end is in sight.”

That’s what he said. And every time the subject comes up, it seems as though I can hear that phrase, resounding like a church bell.

Speaking of church bells, with the jolly season coming up, I have also been reading a bit of Dickens these days: The Chimes (1844). Now, you will understand that I was happily surprised when coincidence all seemed to bring it together yesterday evening in Puerta del Sol, where people from the Environment working group staged a performance of A Climate Christmas Carol…

Before it started the actors gave a brief account about the failed climate conference in Durban, about the lack of political will to act, about global warming being turned into a business.
“We are thirty years late. We have to act NOW”, was the slogan. They started distributing pieces of cardboard and felt pens so that people could write down their proposals.

‘Use the bike,’, ‘Turn down the heat, put on a sweater’, ‘Recycle the water of the shower for the loo’, ‘Switch off equipment you don’t use’, ‘Don’t take the plane, take the train’. Etc. etc.

Enter Scrooge. He receives the proposals. “Very nice, people, very nice. But all these proposals are not going to make a dime’s worth of difference. And you know why? Because you don’t have the power…

“I have the power.”

Scrooge is CEO of Repsol, Spanish petroleum. He wears a golden top hat, and he grins. “Each and every one of you depends on me. For your cars, for the production of your food, for your cell phones, your clothes, your shopping bags, your toys, everything. Without oil, you are nothing. So go ahead, turn down the heat. I don’t care, I will be making loads of money of you in any case.”

Look how content he is about himself, the old bastard! He lies down to rest.

Enter a spirit, dressed in white. Delicately she wakes Scrooge up.

“Who the hell are you?!”

“I am the Spirit of Climate Past.”

The spirit takes Scrooge to his younger days, to his lovely girlfriend. “Do you remember, Scrooge? You two wanted to be rangers!”

“Oh yeah,” Scrooge admits with a hint of melancholy, “silly old me.”

“But then you got that offer to go work at Repsol and earn lots of money. And you took it.”

“Of course I did! Who do you think I am?”

“But it meant you lost her Scrooge, the only person you ever cared about.”

Scrooge bows his head. “For money, Scrooge”, the spirit adds, with disgust. Then she disappears. Scrooge goes back to sleep.

Scrooge and the Spirit of Climate Present

Next, a big figure in white, rudely awakens him.

“Who are you?”

“I am the Spirit of Climate Present, Scrooge. And me o my, I hope you are happy with yourself!”

“Why?”

“Look at what you did, Scrooge… Look at our rivers, look at our soil, smell the air for heaven’s sake! All of it is polluted. And it’s all thanks to you.”

“Is it really?”

“Who else would be to blame, Scrooge? You made all the world dependent on that greasy oil of yours! But undoubtedly, you must be content, because at least you got rich… Enjoy it, Scrooge. Enjoy it while it lasts…”

Scrooge doesn’t seem to be as happy as he was when he goes back to rest. He is frightened when he gets woken up again.

“Who are you?!”

“I am the Spirit of Climate Future, Scrooge. I am here to show you what your actions are going to lead to…”

Thus begin the dance. The spirits twirl around over the square as the wind and the storms are howling.

“Look, Scrooge! The deserts are advancing! The sea levels are rising! Entire cities, entire nations are flooded! People are fleeing to the few inhabitable zones that remain. Wars are raging for water and arable land. And all over the globe, people are starving. This is the future, Scrooge, and it’s all your fault!”

“No!” Scrooge yells, “tell me it isn’t true!”

“It’s true alright. But what’s even worse is that you knew this was going to happen, and you didn’t do anything about it!”

“No, spirit, I didn’t know! Believe me, I didn’t know!”

“Bullocks, Scrooge! You looked the other way, out of greed!”

“So w-what h-happens to me, spirit? What is my fate?”

“Ha! Even while society is crumbling you only worry about yourself, don’t you? Well, let me tell you this: with all the wealth you have accumulated over the years, you won’t even have the luxury of your own tomb, Scrooge… You will be down there in the pit with all the others!”

Scrooge wakes, screaming. It was a nightmare.

“What year is it?”

“It’s 2011.“

“Two thousand eleven! Then it’s not too late yet! We have to act now! Give me those proposals!”

Scrooge takes the pieces of cardboard, reads them out loud, and throws them up into the air one by one. ‘Take the bike!’, ‘Turn down the heat, put on a sweater!’ Etc. etc.

Applause.

Hotel Madrid Evicted

Madrid, December 5

Dear people,

Today, after fifty days of occupation by the Housing commission of the 15M, the Hotel Madrid was evacuated by police. It happened at seven o’ clock in the morning.

Police were well informed about the situation they would find inside. They knew that most of the families had already been relocated in other squats. About a hundred people were present in the building. They were awoken rudely, they didn’t get the chance to gather their belongings. Elderly and children were present as well. They were treated a bit more kindly than the rest.

About ten people were taken into custody for not possessing certain documents. At the end of the day everyone was free again. The eviction took less than two hours. Police didn’t bother to remove the banners and the manifesto’s from the façade. They simply had the entrances closed by brick walls.

Guarding the entrance...

 

... and closing it up.

Immediately after the eviction a demonstration was called for in Puerta del Sol at eight o’ clock in the evening. Finally. These last few days Madrid seemed a city like any other, packed with happy christmas shoppers. It was disgusting.

But this time, between the christmas public, I witnessed the return of the lecheras, the police vans. There were about two dozen of them around the square. It was a wonderful sight. I missed it. Something was bound to happen.

"By and for the neighbours"

 

Sitting down under the Christmas 'tree'

 

Crowd in Sol

Indeed, something did happen. At eight o’ clock there were a couple of hundred people protesting. They would swell to a couple of thousand, but they wouldn’t fill the square. Police had blocked the street leading up to the hotel. Protesters gathered in front of them and sang their tunes. Unfortunately, many people directed their rage directly at the police and not at real estate tycoon Carlos Monteverde Mesa, the owner of the hotel (among many other buildings in Madrid, Barcelona, Valencia, Bilbao, Paris and London), who happens to be a good friend of the governing Popular Party. Check out here.

Meditating in front of police, photo opportunity.

After a while the crowd turned its back on the police and started moving. We followed the itinerary that we have walked various times this summer when Sol was occupied by police. Callao, Gran Vía, Cibeles, Neptuno, Atocha, and back to Jacinto Benavente, where the street leading the Hotel Madrid was blocked by police from the other side.

“One eviction! Another occupation!” was sung over and over again, and along the way the crowd made a half hearted attempt to break down the door of another abbandoned building in Calle Atocha. At the end, people sat down in front of the police line for a couple of minutes, they held a moment of silence for the Hotel, and soon after that the crowd dispersed.

Crowd in Gran Vía

So, the Hotel Madrid is history. But was it a good history? Opinions difer on the subject. Most people share the noble cause it served, housing evicted families. Many people deplore the chaotic way the place was run, and the scenes of violence that took place there. Some people are glad the place got evicted, because it was offering a bad image of the movement. I myself haven’t known the hotel well enough to add my say on this. But fact is that the Hotel Madrid, which has served a purpose one way or another, now lies abbandoned yet again.

 

‘Towards a General Strike’

Madrid, December 2

 

Dear people,

Sunday night we came back late from Marinaleda. We wanted to arrive before the General Assembly ended in Puerta del Sol, so that we could present the flag of the little utopian village that we received as a present from the mayor.

It turned out the General Assembly had already ended hours earlier. It wasn’t a surprise. There is hardly any revolutionary vibe in Madrid at the moment. As a result of this, the demonstration that was held last sunday, a march from the neighbourhoods to Congress under the slogan ‘Towards a General Strike’, became a complete flop. Only about a thousand people attended. Most people didn’t know anything about it.

The heart of the local 15M movement remains the Hotel Madrid. It continues to be a troublesome place. Notwithstanding the efforts of many dedicated people, it often resembles a mental institution. One where the patients are in charge.

A few days ago someone set fire to a neighbouring theatre after having entered there through the hotel. The fire was put out, but it added to the bad reputation of the place. It attracts a lot of people from the street, people who need professional help. It’s not an environment where the citizens are going to inform themselves about the movement, or to take part. And the people who are seriously working to make something out of it are complaining of intense psychological pressure, about conflict between ego’s and factions etc. Many of them are giving up and leaving.

As for me, I’m no longer tempted to take part in Communications at the hotel. A lot of things need to be sorted out. First of all the water problem. You cannot house people who got evicted in a building where they can’t use the bathrooms. Fortunately, other buildings keep getting occupied, so that the hotel’s main function is that of a temporary solution where people get housed before they can be offered an appartment in one of the other squats.

With the lack of a real revolutionary movida here in Madrid, I might soon be on the move. In all directions things are happening. Strikes in particular. It’s a peculiar thing. Here in Madrid, there is constant talk of a strike. There is a General Strike commission active for months, but it doesn’t translate into deeds. The ‘general strike’ is like the revolution itself. People have faith that one day in the foreseeable future it will happen, but in practice it never does.

In the rest of the world it’s different, though. Portugal has had a general strike last week. England as well. When Occupy Oakland was evicted over a month ago, a general strike was called for immediately, and three days later the city’s port was shut down. And in Greece, people have just celebrated the seventh general strike in a year, the fourteenth since the beginning of 2010.

Here in Spain, people only sing about it. “Hace falta ya una huelga, una huelga. Hace falta ya una huelga general.”

“What’s lacking now is a strike, a strike. What’s lacking now is a general strike.”

Truly, it’s lacking.

My Kingdom for a Lottery Ticket

Madrid, November 22

"Don't endorse fraud. They already voted: the bank wins"

Dear people,

So the elections came and went. The predicted result came out. The right wing Popular Party has an absolute majority. Like any political party anywhere anytime, they rallied under the slogan of ‘change’. Which means things will stay the same, or get worse. But even without campaigning they would have won all the same. The Socialist Party left such a mess that people instinctively voted for the other side of the medal. It’s the logic of a two party system. The socialists can relax and sit back. They will probably return to power in four years time. That is, if the revolution will not have triumphed by then…

The result of the elections might have been predictable, but that makes it no less paradoxical. In a country where a massive popular movement has started to shake society at its very foundations, it sounds strange that a neoliberal party with fascist roots would gain such an overwhelming victory. But it was just as strange that a party which calls itself ‘socialist’ has been supporting the banks and the financial system at the expense of its own citizens.

These first few days I’ve had many happy encounters with the people I knew and worked with in Communications, Extension and Audiovisuals during and after the acampada. But the most touching encounter was one with a perfect stranger who came up to me to ask if I were Oscar from the March on Brussels. All he said when I confirmed was: “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

It’s natural for me to make a comparison between Madrid last spring and Madrid now. I shouldn’t do that. The days of the acampada are legend, it will never be the way it was. Or, to use an analogy, in spring it seemed like everybody was madly in love with everybody else. Now it’s like people are married.

The heart of the movement is the Hotel Madrid. It’s where most of the commissions gather. Since it was occupied on Global Revolution Day the place has known a lot of social problems, of which I ignore the details. But most people seem to agree that the organisation of the hotel has slowly started to improve.

Hotel cat

After walking around the corridors and talking to people who are active in the commissions I am very much tempted to put up my office here and continue working with Communications like I did in Sol. But on the other hand I am also tempted to move on. There is a National Assembly of the 15M movement planned in the libertarian communist village of Marinaleda, province of Seville, next weekend, which might be very interesting to cover.

In the last few months the movement has been occupying many buildings throughout Madrid and surroundings. This is completely logical when you have millions of abbandoned spaces whilst people are evicted from their homes as a result of the crisis. If the government doesn’t find a solution for them - as is its constitutional duty – then people will take care of it themselves.

One of the other occupied spaces I visited was the ‘15M Temple’, housed in an old garage near the former Audiovisual bunker. You wouldn’t say so from the outside, but from the inside it looks marvellous. The temple is open to all religions and atheists, and they have an excellent collection of Asterix comics in their library. I can definitely recommend it.

A corner of the 15M Temple

The entrance, and next to it, comrade Irene

So things keep on moving here. No way the 15M is going to stop. But on the day of the elections I was a bit disillusioned. When the results came in, there was hardly anybody in Sol, only a small group of hardcore anarchists burning things and trying to attach a banner to the metro station. I had hoped that people would have turned up in huge numbers, to deliver a message to the future right wing government, saying: This is our space, we’re here, we’re staying and we’ll be watching you.

It didn’t happen. There were more people in Sol next day, waiting in line. It wasn’t the line in front of the rationing office, not yet. It were people waiting to buy a ticket for the traditional Spanish christmas lottery.

When times are tough, you can try to change society, or you can place your hope for fortune on a series of numbers, so that you won’t have to worry any more if you win. Many people do both. It’s another one of those apparent paradoxes, which will probably make perfect sense somehow.

‘Fight the one percent. But whenever you have the chance, join them.’

Take care,

Oscar

Election Day

Madrid, November 20

Dear people,

Every year old Saint Nicholas comes to Holland. The children love him, because he brings them presents. He is the archetype of Santa Claus. But until recently, just a generation or two ago, the old saint wasn’t only loved. He was feared as well, for he would punish you if you had been bad. He would have you whipped by one of his black helpers, ‘Flagellation Pete’, and then he would tie you up, put you in a bag, and take you back home to Spain.

So here I am. Back in Madrid. I have been a bad boy.

It’s election day today. I wanted to be here to witness what’s going in the capital of the revolution after I had been absent for over three months. A lot has changed. Especially in the rest of the world. It’s November 20th. Since September there have been occupations going on in New York and other American cities. Since October it has been going on world wide.

Occupy Rotterdam

Occupy Utrecht

Five days ago the camp on Liberty Square near Wall Street has been destroyed by police. Resistance is growing stronger as a result of it. In these last few weeks there have also been regime changes in Greece and Italy, after intense pressure from the EU and the financial markets. Now it’s Spain’s turn.

Comrades Roberto and Paulina in front of parliament. The sign reads 'For rent'

When I step out onto the Puerta del Sol, the square is buzzing. Lots of people are gathered in an atmosphere of expectation. It only takes a minute before I hear someone calling my name. It’s a joyful encounter with a group of comrades from the March on Brussels. And it wouldn’t be the last time I came across familiar faces. It went on all evening.

When I first arrived in Sol there was an enormous camp here. This is where it all started. From here the fashion of camping out in public squares began. But this time the most curious thing is that while people are camping on squares all over the world, down to the smallest villages in Holland, there isn’t a single tent here in Puerta del Sol.

There’s not the right spirit for it. And authorities wouldn’t accept it. ‘Been there, done that’, seems to be the prevailing thought. And also, it rains.

At the stroke of midnight a crowd gathered at the statue of the bear starts moving and singing. Even if we’re not camping, something is going to happen anyway. We move a couple of blocks north to the other side of Gran Vía, where a residential building has just been occupied. Banners are attached to the balconies. “Space liberated – For evicted families – An occupation for every eviction”.

My first impression from what I see and hear is that the movement went on to consolidate itself on the local level, in the villages and neighbourhoods. But in Sol there doesn’t seem to be much of the happy revolutionary spirit that characterised this place during the last elections in May.

Instead of camping, the movement has squatted the ‘Hotel Madrid’, close to Sol. I’ve been walking through there today. It made me think of Revolutionary HQ in Brussels. The place is enormous. The hotel rooms have been divided into living spaces for evicted families, working spaces for the commissions, and community spaces. It seems to be working out quite well from the outside, but there are also people willing to deny that.

Hotel Madrid

Map of one of the floors

There’s not much more I can say to you, I’ve only just arrived. Judging from all the manifestos announcing strikes and demonstrations, there certainly is no lack of initiatives. But people have the feeling that everything is going to change from now on. The right wing party will win the elections today. And probably they will not have any patience with the movement. They will deal with it swiftly, people think. And their hope is that repression will further stimulate resistance. They hope that after today, once the Socialist Party is ousted from power, their loyal electorate will take the streets alongside the movement.

We’ll see. ‘Full of expectation, our hearts are beating’, as the old Saint Nicholas song goes. ‘to know who will get sweets, and who’ll get whipped.’

Take care,

Oscar

A room turned into a classroom. The 'blackboard' explains the alphabet and the basics of the German language

A History of Acampada Sol

Acampada Sol in the third week

Dear people,

I have been emptying my summer jacket’s right inside pocket, the one that I marked as ‘archive’. A whole lot of material from the Acampada Sol came out of it, including the original maps.

I also went through some of my oldest dispatches. I have been covering the 15M movement since the beginning, but until after the end of the acampada I was exclusively reporting in Dutch.

So I translated my initial reports. It’s a first hand history of what happened in Sol. If you want the guided tour of the place, be sure to check out the June 11 entry: Acampada Soul.

Soon I’ll be back on revolutionary road. And if I find anything interesting, you will be sure to hear from me.

Oscar

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May 21 – “The Key is in Sol”

About a goat sheperd who suddenly finds himself in the midst of a revolution.

May 25 – Portrait of an Acampada

General sketch after ten days of occupation.

May 27 – Comisión Comunicación

Your truly walks into the Communications office. He never left since.

May 27 – Catalonia is not Alone

Police clears the square in Barcelona by force to make room for football celebrations.

May 28 – A Visit from the East

A girl from China comes by at Communications. We discover we have more in common than we think, if only we found the right words for it.

May 29 – La Bastille

The movement expands into the neighbourhoods and villages. The first General Popular Assembly of Madrid convenes in Puerta del Sol.

May 30 – “¡Sol Resiste!“

Our comrades in Paris have been evicted from the Bastille. We march in solidarity to the French embassy. There’s a tempest in the air.

May 31 – Extending the Field of Battle

At Extension the echoes of our movement are coming in from all over the world.

June 1 – The Times of Puerta del Sol

Trying to capture a day of acampada, and to make a newspaper out it.

June 1 – Ye Olde Clocke

A homage to Puerta del Sol.

June 2 – 21st Century Revolution

On audiovisuals and contemporary urban guerilla. Sol is under threat of eviction.

June 2 – The Summer of 2011

On the daily business of revolution. On Walt Disney.

June 3 – Web 3.0

On social media and liberty of action.

June 4 – Democracy from the Bottom Up

The interacampadas or National Assembly convenes in Sol.

June 5 – Murcia Mon Amour

On the press. On alternative roads to democracy, the Murcia case.

June 6 – Buy Tear Gas!

On sedition. Some free investment advice.

June 7 – Angel of the Revolution

On discouragement. On a girl with a camera who saves the day.

June 8 – The End of the Beginning

The assembly decides on lifting the acampada on June 12 with a great happening.

June 9 – “To Parliament!”

Parliament is besieged by surprise. It turns into a happy celebration.

June 10 – Respect!

A friend of mine comes to visit the acampada from Holland. On libertarianism and anarchism. On reasons for joining the revolution.

June 11 – Acampada Soul

A guided tour of the acampada, the day before it disappears, ‘for the history books’. Original maps included.

June 12 – Darth Vader

The new city council is sworn in. And we don’t let it pass by without making some noise.

June 13 – Brand New Day

On the final day of the acampada, and the day after. On a square that is polished to shine.

Rising Sun

Amiens, September 29

Day 66 of the March on Brussels. From Breteuil, 32 km.

Acampada this morning in Breteuil

Dear people,

The hot sun felt like summer today, and we enjoy it as long as it lasts. We have advanced to the infamous river Somme, to the city of Amiens. Close to the river, in the more popular neighbourhoods, I have found traces of the low lands to which we are directed. The smell of French fries, and the presence of canals.

After the first few days from Paris, we have had certain problems of convivencia. When the distances become longer, the marchers become fewer. Many go by bus, train or hitch hiking, but they let their backpacks be transported by the comrade Charlie’s van.

When I say that this march seems to go ahead thanks to divine providence, that isn’t completely true. It’s thanks to comrade Charlie. He does logistics, kitchen, and mediation in conflicts. But yesterday, when he arrived and saw that all of the none walkers were drinking beer and didn’t help him unload the van, he was fed up with it.

The Central Committee prepared an internal assembly and announced that everyone will have to carry his own bags as from tomorrow. It was a threat. When people are faced with the necessity to carry their stuff, they start to think about what they really need, and what they can discard. People are used to accumulate, and so they were scared out of their wits.

In the end, according to plan, it was decided that only the people who are actually walking can bring one piece of luggage along in the van. The others will have to arrange themselves.

For the great part of the day I have been walking along with comrade Juan, who joined us in Paris. He is from the Communications commission of Acampada Málaga. We spoke a bit about Spanish history from the War of Succesion at the beginning of the 18th century up until the latest attempt of a military golpe in 1981. Comrade Juan knows his history, and he knows how to synthesise it.

A recurring theme is the existence of two different Spains. You could go back to the middle ages to make to this point, to the seafaring merchants of Catalunia and the feudal warlords of the highlands. The two states of mind have always persisted. On the one hand there is the Spain of the army, the Spain of god, nation, king and order. On the other hand there is the Spain of self determination and freedom, the Spain of the people.

Still, these spirits have never been confined to a specific category. In 1808, the populace rose up in favour of a decrepit monarchy, out of resentment against the French invadors. A few years later the intellectual elite styled the most progressive Constitution of the age, which was duly repressed by the royal establishment. In the century that followed, between one military coup and another, the liberal ideas and the feudal practices flowed and reflowed in Spanish politics.

The civil war in the 1930s was the exemplary expression of this conflict between the dark ages and the enlightenment. It was all the more symbolic because it encompassed all the great political philosophies of the 20th century. The anarchist trade union CNT had over a million members at the time. They formed their own militia’s on the republican side. It was like waging war, real war, in ‘15M-style’. They would take an old truck, paint it red and black, attach a gun to it, if they had one, and call it a tank.

The fascists won the war in the end. And only very recently has the spirit of the other Spain returned to the streets and to the squares.

In front of City Hall, Amiens

'Free massage' from the Massage commission

Another recurring issue, linked to the former, is the question of centralism. Madrid as capital, against the autonomic regions, peoples and villages.

I have noticed this same issue in our movement. Officially, every popular assembly is one hundred percent autonomous. The 15th of May was a nation wide protest in Spain. But the whole history of the acampadas began in Madrid, on Puerta del Sol.

Sol has been an example for many. The first people camping out there in the square, and everyone who assembled in their support, have shown that all those people longing for change are not alone, and that together they can make a difference. As a result, acampadas sprung up in all cities down to the smallest towns of the country. Later, all the Spanish popular marches converged on Sol. But those marches didn’t come to Sol because it was the center, like someone might think. They came to claim the fact that each different assembly was distinct and autonomous. They came to share their experiences on a level of equality. Sol just seemed the appropriate place to meet.

At the moment, there are two assemblies meeting in Puerta del Sol. One is the original Asamblea General de Sol, which represented the acampada in its day, and the other is the Asamblea Popolar de Madrid (APM), which represents the assemblies of the neighbourhoods and the villages of the region.

For some time now, people have been saying that the General Assembly of Sol is no longer necessary. They argue that sovereignty resides in the neighbourhoods, and that the APM is the only representative assembly for Madrid.

We’ve had this discussion in the march as well. When ‘Sol’, asks us to reorganise our Communications, “or else…”, then some of us have the instinctive reaction of saying: “Who do they think they are?” These people generally agree that the Assembly of Sol should be dissolved.

Comrade Getafe and me argue against it. First of all, because Sol is not part of one of the neighbourhoods. Sol is Sol. Second of all, for sentimental reasons. Getafe was one of the Famous Forty, and I have camped in Sol for three weeks. It is our ‘native acampada’. But most important, as for me, Sol is a point of reference, a megaphone, a symbol.

Every revolution needs its symbols. And thanks to Sol, the sun itself has become one of the symbols of our movement.

Acampada in front of City Hall

Popular Assembly in Amiens