CHAPTER 3: FROM BURLINGTON TO AKWESASNE

The next couple weeks were increasingly frenetic. I’ll give only the most schematic account.

NEW YORK DIARY CONTINUED

Thursday, March 29, 2001: Ya Basta! meeting, Brooklyn

Ya Basta! meeting, a big circle in Moose’s living room. This meeting marks the first appearance of Smokey and Flamma’s friend Jesse, a cocky-seeming young man newly arrived from Louisiana. Tells us he’s an “organizer,” needs something to organize, and Ya Basta! is clearly in need of help. He’s actually a pretty good facilitator and insists we have a proper meeting, but just about everyone not of the Smokey and Flamma faction takes an instant dislike to him.

Friday, March 30: Independent Media Center, Manhattan

Hours at the IMC, mainly spent consoling Moose over a recent romantic disaster. Everyone is dashing about making preparations for the border action. Warcry is going as a dollar bill. Julie from the Urban Justice League is popping in and out, looking alternately sweet and officious. Twinkie and Brad¹ are out on bicycles when I come, searching for sushi. There’s an enormous store of the stuff in the IMC fridge, mostly with the fish parts carefully picked out.

Sunday, April 1

1 Brad Will—the same Brad Will murdered in Oaxaca in November 2006. There seems little point now in disguising his identity.

Early word coming in about the border action. It sounds like it went fairly well—everyone was detained, and most told not to enter Canada for five years, but that was kind of expected, and at least we got coverage on WBAI and even some Canadian TV. Still, there seems to have been some kind of falling about between activists. The SalAMI action in Ottawa also went extremely well and grabbed headlines all over Canada. Of course, US media never even mentioned it but that was only to be expected.

DAN Meeting, Charas El Bohio

I was at the DAN meeting at Charas at 6 PM. Lesley and I gave our report-back from the Québec spokes, trying to explain the dynamics of the three color blocks. There were the usual worries about what was actually going on at Akwesasne and about Shawn’s rhetoric, as well as a long discussion of PGA’s upcoming general meeting in Cochabamba, and the need for Continental DAN to finally get on board and formally endorse the PGA principles (which we do).

Various people in phone contact with the crew at the Canadian border explain what the problem there was: it was Julie again. No one seems surprised. This time it’s racial insensitivity. Twinkie had participated in the border action mainly to make a point about immigration issues: where white people can, normally, cross at will, things are entirely different for anyone who looks like they’re from Asia, Latin America, or Africa; and, of course, if white people try to make a political issue of all this, then suddenly, they can’t cross either. Julie, in her inimitable style, managed to not only completely fail to point this out to the WBAI reporter, but ignored Twinkie herself when she tried to get a place at the mike to explain it. Twinkie was very, very angry.

Tuesday, April 3

The “Pagan Call to Action” appears, one of perhaps a dozen minor calls for different groups or clusters taking part in the upcoming actions. It does indeed cite the Cochabamba Declaration, framed by Bolivian groups who successfully fought back an attempt by the government to privatize the local water into the hands of Bechtel:

The Cochabamba Declaration:

1. Water belongs to the earth and all species and is sacred to life, therefore, the world’s water must be conserved, reclaimed, and protected for all future generations and its natural patterns respected.

2. Water is a fundamental human right and a public trust to be guarded by all levels of government, therefore, it should not be commodified, privatized, or traded for commercial purposes. These rights must be enshrined at all levels of government. In particular, an international treaty must ensure these principles are noncontrovertable.

3. Water is best protected by local communities and citizens, who must be respected as equal partners with governments in the protection and regulation of water. Peoples of the earth are the only vehicle to promote earth democracy and save water.

Here on the banks of the St. Lawrence/Magtogoek, with the river as our ally and the ancestors marching with us, we will become a living river, to bring this declaration as a challenge to the world’s governments and an inspiration to her peoples.

Wednesday, April 4

The name-calling on the listservs is getting unusually vituperative as everyone seems to be pouncing on everyone else over the April 1 Border Action. The organizers themselves aren’t saying much, but the moment anyone raises the issue of racism, someone else seems to slam them as a Marxist sectarian. Twinkie herself hasn’t posted anything, but finally, one of her friends uploads Twinkie’s own version of events:

Can someone remind me why we are protesting the FTAA? Hmm???? To recruit more people in our organizations??? Or the fact that corporations ignore borders and people are oppressed by them! What about Cornwall and what’s happening to the Mohawks? Are we going there because it’s an easy way into Québec, or is it because we really support the fact that the border is a daily affront to their living and sovereignty?

SO! That is what happened on Apr 1^st at that media action thingy. No one addressed those issues and only focused on their lame, privileged, white asses not being able to get into Canada this ONE TIME because of this mass mobilization protest…

Meanwhile, she noted, as we were being politely and speedily processed there were poor-looking people of color waiting on line forever, some probably to end up in immigration detention. Did anyone even think to bring know-your-rights fliers or any kind of outreach? Did anyone even mention them at the press conference? Twinkie ends with a ringing declaration “NO MORE STREET THEATER WITH PRIVILEGED ACTIVISTS AT SITES OF OPPRESSION!!!! Call me a separatist if you will, but I will not work with people with bad politics, and I will publicly call out people on their racism.”

Thursday, April 5

The Montréal Gazette reports that prosecutors in Québec are saying that they’ve been asked to delay all bail hearings for protesters arrested at the upcoming summit for three to five days to keep them off the streets (Marsden 2001). Several, outraged, are announcing they intend to refuse to cooperate.

Ya Basta! Meeting at Aladdin’s Place in Chelsea, 6 PM

Ya Basta!, meanwhile, is on the verge of breakup. April 5 was supposed to be the meeting at which we discussed common principles: what the collective is ultimately supposed to stand for. Jesse threatens to block any such discussion on the grounds that Ya Basta! is supposed to be “anti-ideological.” Laura and I barely managed to restrain Moose from marching out. “Anti-ideological means we’re not declaring ourselves anarchists or communists or adherents to any particular… you know, ideology. It doesn’t mean we don’t stand for anything at all. Or why are we going to Québec to begin with? Maybe we should form into two teams, one protesting the FTAA, one supporting it, and fight each other!”

As a compromise, I pull out a copy of the PGA principles of unity I’d been carrying around for just such an occasion. But that too is shot down, over objections to the phrase “nonviolent civil disobedience,” which, as Target and Jesse and several others point out, could be interpreted as a condemnation of groups in the Global South like the Zapatistas, who have no recourse but to resort to armed struggle. When I try to point out that the Zapatistas actually created PGA, Smokey, who’s facilitating, tables the discussion: “We’ve got a whole series of practical issues we still have to work out tonight and clearly this is going to be a long conversation. Let’s see if we have time to get back to it next week.” At this point, I go out and find Moose, who’s been sitting outside in the hall next to the elevator, to tell him that, if he still wants to leave in a huff, he has my full support.

Sunday, April 8: DAN Meeting, Charas El Bohio, 6 PM

A small meeting, a little over twenty people, mainly concerned with what to do about what’s beginning to be called the “Akwesasne hemorrhage.” We’ve been getting nothing but bad news. It would seem the Band Council has definitively called Shawn’s bluff. There are rumors that the Feds have been sending around tapes of street battles in Prague, claiming we’re coming to do the same thing in their community. Rumors abound. Some of the Warrior Houses appear to be mobilizing against us. Shawn, on the other hand, keeps assuring us it’s just a matter of working through the process, we have to expect opposition, there are always reactionaries. It’s hard not to notice though that his public statements have completely changed in tone: he’s now calling for us to attend a fish-fry, a festive, “child-friendly” event to discuss trade issues with the community, followed by an entirely peaceful crossing in which activists and community members will mix together and overwhelm customs with our sheer numbers. This creates a dilemma: on the one hand, rumors are necessarily going to be flying that the action will be a disaster. On the other hand, since everything depends on numbers, if enough people believe it will be a disaster, that alone will be enough to make it true.

Tuesday, April 10

Reports from Québec City are growing increasingly surreal. An anonymous Canadian celebrity is reported to have announced his or her willingness to provide funding for the construction of a giant medieval catapult with which to lay siege to the summit. Meanwhile, 1,700 prison guards, having received orders to clear hundreds of inmates from the Orsainville and Hull detention facilities to make way for protesters, decide to go on strike. Police are called in to take over the prisons, and the guards adopt tactics of nonviolent civil disobedience, blockading the prison entrances. The police attack, and a dozen guards are arrested.

“They came in formation. They crushed us. They hit us with their clubs,” said Michel Gauthier, a guard at Orsainville for twenty-three years.

“The summit protesters who are scared to come here are right to be scared. We’re the proof today that police here are very dangerous.” (King and Van Praet 2001)

Thursday, April 12: Ya Basta! Meeting, Manhattan

The preceeding week had been full of internal reconciliation efforts within Ya Basta!: parties, messages, proposals to perhaps split into allied but autonomous affinity groups. In the end, when the time for another meeting comes, we have too much practical business to take care of to vituperate: the Burlington trainings, Canadian border scenarios, legal, communications, tactical questions. Moose is feeling increasingly guilty about the idea that he might be encouraging people into a situation where some might get seriously hurt. We end the meeting with a big go-around where we all talk about our parameters and limits concerning violence and nonviolence. Remarkably, just about everyone says exactly the same thing. None of us would be willing to attack someone else, or carry out an act we feel likely to cause physical injury to another person; none of us had the slightest moral problem with damage to corporate property; for pretty much all of us, the really difficult question was what we’d do if a companion or someone we cared about were being physically assaulted—that is, would we be willing to attack someone to save them? Most of us feel we wouldn’t really be able to predict how we would react to such a situation until it actually happeed.

Perhaps, I thought, we weren’t really so far apart as I’d imagined.

Another minor crisis demanding my offices as Minister of Information: the Band Council, or Council of Chiefs had issued a statement expressing alarm at the prospect of violence and destruction and begging activists not to sow discord or commit illegal acts in their community. I am asked to draft a response.

To the Mohawk Council, Akwesasne,

We are writing in response to your recent letter concerning our plans for a crossing through Akwesasne via Cornwall Island and into Canada on April 19^th.

We would like to say, first of all, that we are deeply grateful to you for the understanding and spirit of tolerance that you show in your letter, and wish to do everything possible to put your minds at peace about the concerns you raise. Rest assured that we are coming to Akwesasne only as guests of residents who have invited us to do so; we have never planned to do anything, let alone anything violent or destructive, on our own accord. The last thing we would want would be to cause disruption to your lives or create difficulties for you.

Our understanding is that we have been invited to a peaceful, festive event which will involve fried fish, children, and an educational session, in which our hosts will explain to us some of the political issues important to the Mohawk Nation and First Nations people more generally. Afterwards, we will proceed peacefully across the bridge, keeping one lane open to ensure residents will not be inconvenienced and emergency vehicles can get through. At no time have we even contemplated ourselves engaging in confrontation with anyone; rather, we consider ourselves guests on someone else’s land, and wish to act as such, with all possible respect to the Mohawk Nation and all its people. As political activists, we hope that this action will make it possible for us both to gain a greater understanding of the problems facing your Nation, your achievements, and your hopes for the future, and to better enable us to act in solidarity with you in the future, just as our hosts have already shown enormous kindness, understanding, and solidarity with us. We come as friends and we hope to establish a friendship that will endure long after we are gone.

Yours sincerely,

The members of the New York City Direct Action Network
The members of the New York City Ya Basta! Collective
The members of the Philadelphia Direct Action Group

Saturday, April 14

Québec police announce (La Presse, April 14, 2001) that “all possibilities would be examined before using tear gas” and that even then, doing so would be preceded by announcements in four languages. As for plastic bullets, the police said that these would be used only as a last resort before the use of lethal force, always against an individual, never against a crowd, and only when that particular individual “presented a serious threat to the police.”

Marina, who is doing legal work for the Burlington mobilization, reports that her cell phone account was suddenly canceled, along with two different email accounts. One company sends her a note explaining that her account was terminated because it was being used for “illegal activities.”

All sorts of rumors are spinning around of impending disaster at Akwesasne. Several of us spend hours on email trying to squelch them—Target often suggesting the rumors are spread by police, me emphasizing that without turn-out, there’s no way the action can work.

BURLINGTON

Wednesday, April 17

Finished with the last week of classes, I’m finally free to throw myself into the action full time.

I arrived at the Burlington Convergence after it had been going on for a couple days, almost at the tail end really. Most of my time there had a strange, disjointed, choppy quality. In retrospect, I think some of this had to do with the fact that it seemed half the places I went—in cars, cafés, public places—someone seemed to be playing the Ramones (“I Want to be Sedated,” “Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue,” “We Want the Airwaves”). It was only later someone explained to me that Joey Ramone had just died of liver cancer. Mainly, though, it was because everything seemed to be falling apart. Checking in at the housing desk, I ran into Raoul, one the Yabbas—a huge, teddybearish fellow in a tiny porkpie hat. “David, you have no idea how glad I am to see you here,” he said, giving me an enormous hug.

“Why? What’s going on? How have the Ya Basta! trainings been going?”

“We only had one. It was a disaster. Now it’s not even clear Ya Basta! exists.”

Apparently, tensions between the trainers had been the spark. The training, held on a UVM campus soccer field, had actually drawn a fair-sized crowd, perhaps fifty all told, and that was on the first day of the convergence when not many people had arrived. There was a kind of vast foam party as everyone played around with different sorts of possible body-armor, then the idea was to have everyone practice group formations in their newly created gear. That was where things began to fall apart. Betty, the dancer—and of course the only one of the trainers with an actual skill or teaching experience—was being systematically sidelined by the triumvirate of Moose, Target, and Jesse, who were all battling with each other for attention. It got to the point where even Betty, normally the most cheerfully philosophical person one might imagine, started to complain. So did a number of the other women participants. Moose exploded at the other two men for their gender insensitivity. “They ended up in a complete shouting match.”

“They were actually shouting?”

“Well, maybe not quite literally shouting. But making no effort to disguise the fact that they were really pissed off.”

The display of rage however itself made many of the women so uncomfortable they left, taking with them a good portion of the non-Ya Basta! participants.

Someone called in an activist from the West Coast named Laura, repeatedly described to me as “a kick-ass gender sensitivity trainer,” who, after observing the group briefly, concluded that its dynamic was so deeply problematic that it probably wouldn’t be worth the time and effort to try to salvage it.

“And…?”

“And that was it. That was our last training. None of the other scheduled trainings have even happened.”

“Where’s Moose?”

“Finally, he just threw his hands up and said he was giving up on us. He joined a different affinity group, some people from Philadelphia.”

“Oh… I’m sure Betty really appreciated that. What about Smokey and Flamma? Emma? Where are they?”

“I haven’t seen them since. I don’t know. Someone said they might have left town.”

I also discovered that, when it came to the sympathies of the local socialist administration, Emma had been spot on. Far from welcoming us, they had been doing all the fear-mongering one might expect from a local government bracing for a major action—despite the fact that we had repeatedly insisted to them there weren’t going to be any actions in Burlington, just meetings. Local businesses had been warned of potential window-breakers, police patrols were everywhere; activists regularly found themselves being followed by unmarked black SUVs which seemed to serve no purpose other than to create a climate of fear and intimidation. That was the other thing I was hearing everywhere, aside from the Ramones music: scary stories. One car full of obvious Feds, had pulled up to Kitty and asked her if she wanted to jump in for a ride. Another SUV had chased Target through an alley. Someone had walked down the street in Ya Basta! gear and returned to his car ten minutes later to discover some enormous bruiser in a business suit examining the trunk. Several local activists had already reported mysterious break-ins.

After dropping off my bags at the Burlington IMC, and coordinating with the people who were going to be sharing my accommodations, I set off for the spokescouncil.

The Burlington Spokes

At the housing office, I’d picked up a flier which explained that the spokescouncil was going to be at a place called “Billings Student Center,” on the University Terrace of UVM, not far from the center of town. The building turns out to be a huge turreted structure in red stone, looking somewhere between church and castle. Apparently, it used to be the campus library. There are already a couple of black flags and banners on the lawn outside. At the door, we’re asked to affirm that we are not police or working journalists, then peruse the usual tables full of documents, along with large black markers with which to write the legal and medical phone numbers (posted everywhere) on one’s leg or arm. The meeting itself is located in a large, circular room with a circular balcony surrounding it; too small to use for an actual theater, it must be some kind of campus meeting-space. Up on the balcony, apparently, are various offices of student clubs, including the student radio station, where there’s a small crowd of technical types—mostly IMC people—making use of the equipment. In the center of the big room is a big round wooden table; empowered spokes are sitting directly around it; everyone else is milling around behind them, sitting in clumps on the floor, or drifting in and out of other rooms. There’s no expectation that the audience should stay quiet during meetings—actually, spokes are expected to be continually conferring with their affinity groups, and members of affinity groups with each other. Though, in a room this small, the facilitators usually end up having to intervene periodically to remind everyone to keep it down to a reasonable volume.

The meeting has of course already started (have I ever actually witnessed the beginning of a spokescouncil?) though only about two-thirds of the spokes are already there. The facilitators, male and female, have arranged the usual pieces of butcher paper against a nearby wall and are writing out an agenda with colored pens. This is a real spokes so everyone is participating in constructing the agenda.

Looking for someone from New York who can fill me in on the situation, I spot Twinkie, munching on a muffin in the corner.

“So how have things been going?”

She pauses, draws in a deep breath, searches for appropriate words. “Could be a lot better. Yesterday a delegation of Mohawks came from Akwesasne, asking us not to come.”

“These were Band Council people?”

“There were seven or eight of them; a deputy chief, some people who put on a little ritual…”

“Really? I mean, like, a Thanksgiving ritual? Where they thank the Creator for having made the skies and waters and strawberries and everything?” (I too had been reading up around that time.) “You know that’s the standard Mohawk way of starting any important event. I’ve always wanted to see one of those.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s exactly what it was like. They started with a Thanksgiving ritual. It was very beautiful. Then they told us not to come.”

“So there were people from the Council and Traditionalists? So is it,” confused now, “…the Traditionalists against the Warriors now?”

“No, there were people who said they were from the Warrior Society with them too. Progressives, Traditionalists, Warriors… It was kind of a disaster.”

I sat down nearby and started scribbling out initial notes: there seemed to be about 150–200 people, with fairly reasonable gender balance, something of an ethnic mix, though, I noted, absolutely not one single African-American in the room. No, actually, one. A West Indian looking fellow on the balcony. But that was it.

Laura, the gender sensitivity trainer, is also acting as co-facilitator with some fellow from Boston named Mark. As I started jotting meeting notes, she was in fact telling everyone that they’d been having big problems in this regard. However grudgingly, I was forced to admit she was pretty good at this.

Laura: I just wanted to say before we start that I’ve been really impressed by the respectfulness people have been showing in terms of the racial dynamics here. And this despite the fact we’re in a really difficult situation. In terms of the gender dynamics, we’ve been having some problems. So before we do anything else, let me just say: guys, please, check yourselves before you speak. If you’ve already spoken two or three times on the same issue and others haven’t said anything: step back. Give other voices a chance to be heard. If your point is really as crucial as you thought it is, then probably someone else will make it anyway. And if they don’t, you can always put yourself back on the stack. Remember: this shit is deeply internalized in all of us, so guys, please: be conscious.

We start as usual with a go-round, each spoke identifying themselves and the affinity group they represent.

Laura: Any more housekeeping items? No? Okay, several of the people who facilitated last night were also involved in prior negotiations with the Mohawks. We’ve given them a fifteen-minute slot to fill us in on some of the history, in way of background. Mac?

[People start searching for Mac. Someone on the balcony says he’s on the phone. There’s a brief huddle at the head of the table]

All right, so Lesley from NYC-DAN will take his place. No, wait, here’s Mac.

[Other people introduce themselves as part of the team: Twinkie, of AUTODAWG, Jessica from the Philadelphia Direct Action Group, Nisha, an activist from New York, who explains she’s not speaking for anyone but herself]

Mac: And I’m Mac. I’m with DAN and the People’s Law Collective. Hi, how’s everyone doing?

I’ve been the main person speaking with the Boots Clan and Warriors from Akwesasne and Tyendinaga Reserves. The main organizer I’ve been dealing with is Shawn Brant from Tyendinaga. I spent three years on the streets with Shawn in Ontario; he’s one of the most solid, dependable activists I know.

Back in January, we were working with groups in Canada to help move folks across to the other side—the idea was to shut down any border post that refuses to let us in. Shawn said he’d speak with the Mohawk community in Akwesasne, and eventually some of us went up to meet him. At the time, he framed it as a very strong action, opening with a statement about the bridge as a daily affront to their sovereignty, and claiming that they would do whatever it took to seize it.

As a result some people on our side put out some premature statements.

Meanwhile, Shawn went to the Boots, who are big in the Bear Clan at Akwesasne. Out of respect, he also approached the Band Council, which is the formal, elected body, but they became alarmed at the prospect of a possibly divisive action taking place on their lands.

So, when we went to a second meeting at Akwesasne, they made it clear, first of all, that the action won’t involve actually closing the border as the Band Council was concerned about that. We told them, sure. Later there were more concerns: at the third meeting, Harriet Boots came out strongly in support of the action, along with her husband John and their son Stacey. She wanted to ensure that we emphasized the terrible health conditions on the reserve—the fact that the local clinic tells women there not to breastfeed their children because the water there is so toxic—and the bridge as an affront to Mohawk sovereignty. She also said that, as their goal is to unify the nation, they wanted us to be peaceful and organized. That we shouldn’t talk too much on the reserve itself, but they were going to organize a fish-fry, then we would go to meet our Canadian allies halfway across the bridge. The idea was that, first, vehicles would pass lawfully, then, simply by weight of numbers, we could peacefully overwhelm the border authorities and everyone would be able to get through. After that, the Band Council said okay, but they registered some strong reservations.

Shawn told me a joint statement of support came out yesterday. The Wolf Clan is closer to the Band Council (there had been a kind of civil war between the Wolves and the Bears, who tend to work with the Warriors, over plans to build a casino some years ago) so they’ve definitely been suspicious.

Last night, though, they issued a letter of support—so it’s too bad some of the Band Council people and Brian Skidder came to our spokescouncil and urged us not to come. They told us that police showed them videos they claimed were from Seattle, but I think must have actually been from Prague, of people throwing molotovs and battling police, and told them this was the sort of thing they’d be bringing on their people. After the meeting, the delegates said that, after having actually met us and seeing how we treated one another, they recognized we were good people and they didn’t fear us any longer. But Brian Skidder still told us not to come.

I spoke with Stacey and Shawn this morning, and I’m trying to get hold of a press release they put out. They are still very much asking us to come—they want our support, they want to see a peaceful, safe action. They’re still having the fish-fry, they’ve invited us to it, and they also want to help us with crossing into Canada. I recognize this is not a simple action, but I believe in our action and believe it’s high time the anti-globalization movement does something like this, and establish ties to First Nation activists on both sides of the border.

Mark: Are there any clarifying questions?

Laura: …that is, for the team who have been working with the Mohawk organizers?

Jessica: I should also point out that I was at the second and third meetings at Akwesasne, and that this “statement of support” was really more a statement of non-opposition.

Woman: What’s happening on the Canadian side now?

Mac: Our allies in Kingston say they will be there on the other side of the bridge, they will be flexible and willing to help in whatever way they can. Oh—I should add there’s a rumor (and there are going to be lots of rumors; we’re going to have a hard time sorting all this out) that the police have already set up busses and two trucks along the highway on the other side of the bridge. That may or may not be true, but we have to assume the police will be there too.

Man: Our affinity group wants to know if the Wolf Clan was ever approached directly?

Mac: No, we felt we should let our allies deal with them. Which might have been a mistake.

Woman: I’m from the legal team and we’re prepared to shift to another crossing location if we have to. Also, a clarifying question: why is it that Shawn, who’s not actually from Akwesasne, is speaking for that community?

Mac: Shawn is not speaking for the community. He’s been an organizer for ten or fifteen years; he’s from a leading family at Tyendenaga; he went through the protocols to get the support of the Boots family, but nothing more.

Woman: My affinity group is concerned: will they still have to go through customs?

Mac: There’s a chance we will. We hope to overwhelm them, but we might not. The best we can say is there’s as good or better a chance of doing so here than anywhere else.

Man: If Shawn isn’t from Akwesasne, who is it from Akwesasne who actually does want us to be there?

Mac: I won’t guarantee numbers, but one of the most powerful clans does want us there. The Band Council goes back and forth, and the Wolf Clan is definitely against us. Our allies say we have ninety percent support in the community as a whole, but we don’t know what’s really happening there. I don’t want to tell you something that turns out to be wrong.

Laura: Okay, let me open the floor now to anyone who wishes to ask questions.

Famous: Hi, I’m Famous. I’m with the medics. I’d like to know whether we’ll have an escort as we approach the Reservation?

Mac: No, our allies are going to be concentrating on security on the reserve itself. There won’t be any actual opposition once we get there, but there may be before—there’s been some talk of police roadblocks. But that’ll be up to us to deal with.

Famous: No, I mean at the edge of the Reservation.

Mac: Yes, there will be.

Mark: Remember this is clarification on background history, not logistical scenarios.

Tony: Hi, I’m Tony, also with the medics. What impressed me about the delegation that came here last night were their concerns about opening wounds from the civil war. Would anyone be able to address that?

Mac: Well, our allies say this will be a unifying action, that they’re more unified now than ever. I can’t tell you who’s right.

Laura: Other questions specifically from spokes—not logistical now, that’ll be later. Right now, history questions that need to be clarified.

This is looking bad. Mac is a dedicated anarchist and normally one of the most open, friendly, people one could possibly imagine. His usual manner is so innocent and playful some find it hard to take him completely seriously. Now, trapped between his friend Shawn and the American activists, as he answers one question after another with carefully worded statements, he’s beginning to sound like a politician. Presumably, in his position, it’s almost impossible not to. After all, I reflect, isn’t this just what makes politicians talk like weasels to begin with: being caught between constituencies who want radically different things, trying to make everybody happy? But the audience is noticing, and many are not happy.

Woman: I suggest we talk directly to Shawn about this.

Mac: I’m still talking to him. To be honest, he’s getting very frustrated with our movement. He feels he’s had to hold our hand through this whole thing.

Laura: Any more questions specifically about the history of negotiations? No? Okay. As facilitators we’re unclear on what’s happening next. We were told we might be getting a phone call from Akwesasne, we might be getting a letter faxed in. So [to the team] do you have input? Help me here.

Nisha: Jodie, could you step up? This is your section on the agenda now.

[A woman named Jodie steps up.]

Jodie: Hi. I’m from Philly, I do a lot of work with Western Shoshone and other Native American groups out West. I was going to be holding a cultural respect training before the action, but it looks like we’re not going to have time for that. I’ve got a handout I was going to use for that (people can share it with their neighbors if there’s not enough copies) but, the main thing is: we’ve also got Russell Black here, of the Oglala Lakota. And I felt maybe first we should hear from him.

So, Russell, could you stand up and share a bit of your understanding of this situation?

A tall skinny kid appears, who looks like he might be about seventeen years old. He stands at the other side of the table. “I am here on behalf of my elders,” he begins. He then pronounces a brief prayer, and a slightly longer speech, emphasizing how his nation, the Oglala (still erroneously referred to as the Sioux) are divided by similar factionalism between the traditionalists and a so-called “pragmatic” group tied to the official reservation government, who are corrupt and really just agents of the federal government. Only the traditionalists have made a principled stand against genocide and violations of the earth… Everyone listens in rapt, respectful silence. Myself, I can’t help but reflecting this would feel a trifle more convincing if there hadn’t been traditionalists with the party yesterday telling us not to come. At the end, people in the hall react half with applause, half with energetic twinkling.

“No matter what we decide tonight,” another woman says, “we want to do it in a respectful fashion. We’ve been invited to a meal. Surely it must be disrespectful not to show up for it.”

Madhava, one of the IMC folk upstairs, announces we’ve got a call coming in from Akwesasne.

Then we seem to have lost it again.

“A very interesting piece of information,” remarks Laura as Mac and the technical people all scramble upstairs. “Our fax lines have been mysteriously jammed all day. We’ve been unable to send or receive anything. Plus the phone lines are uncertain. We’re trying to put the call through DSL …”

Techie Upstairs: I think we’ve got it on the PA system…

Mac: Ready Shawn? [crackle] Are you still there? [crackle]

Techie: Shit, this isn’t going to work. We’re going to have to use another phone.

[Much futzing about with equipment]

Laura: So give me some good news here, guys. Can we proceed?

Mac: [on a phone line with Shawn] How would people feel if I were to come down and repeated Shawn’s words

[Twinkles]

[Mac explaining the situation to Shawn]

Laura: No, don’t come down. Just do it from the balcony.

Mac: Okay. [from the balcony, begins repeating what Shawn is saying]:

First, I want to apologize for having to do things in this way. It would have been much more appropriate for us to be there with you, but just not possible right now. I just also want to say there’s a lot of bullshit going on here…

Someone: Um, can you repeat that, sorry?

[Much laughter]

Shawn [via Mac]: As activists, we share a common responsibility. “Free trade” is about the people being manipulated by the government. What happened at your meeting last night was us being manipulated by the native government. These people do not represent the best interests of the people of Akwesasne, and the people have reaffirmed yesterday their welcoming of Americans coming to protest the FTAA. We do not have Indian titles behind our names, but we carry the honor and integrity of, and are the true leaders of, the Mohawk Nation. That honor and integrity is reflected in the commitment we’ve made, and the fact that we have done those things we said we would do. These attempts being made to reduce our numbers by asking activists not to come are based on fear: the government knows they are not in control, that they are part of a system that has allowed our community to be poisoned, our children to be born with birth defects, our integrity and our culture to be lost. And now they claim to be working in our best interest to prevent people from coming.

We affirmed yesterday that we will extend the honor that’s required to people going to Québec City to legitimately dissuade governments from further free trade negotiations. We acknowledge that those who go to fight the governments that we fight shall be recognized for their commitment, because we share the same enemy. If people are dissuaded from coming, then that is by their choice, we have made a pledge and a commitment and we stand by that. You are all welcome in Akwesasne, and to the same degree that we have said in previous discussions.

All I can say is that I hope people will come, but I can certainly understand the confusion that’s been put in people’s minds by the people last night. But the people are with you.

[Wild applause]

After some vain attempts to keep the line open so people can ask Shawn questions, the connection collapses in hissing static and, from then on, no phones in the building could be made to work. Eventually we turn our attentions back to meeting logistics (with the time crunch, Jodie’s cultural sensitivity training, scheduled for 7PM, will have to be moved over another building at 8 or 9PM. Then there’s the problem of dinner…).

Laura: So. Have affinity groups actually brought proposals about how we should proceed from here?

[Indications from several that they have]

Not everyone has to, but if any do, we can try to sort out how the various proposals overlap and relate and hone them down to a workable list of alternatives.

Woman in Yellow: Here’s our proposal. We propose we should go to Akwesasne, but keep things open in our minds whether we’ll cross there or in another place. We should stay in contact with the Mohawks on the Canadian side, so they can tell us what’s happening there. We go to the fish-fry and reassess, hold a spokescouncil there.

Laura: Well, that’s one proposal. Awesome. Others? Oh, and bear in mind we can also develop alternative scenarios tonight—you can propose something new. So: any others? No?

Woman in Blue: Our collective made an alternative proposal after last night, when things seemed shaky. First, for the sake of solidarity with Mohawks, we should attend the fish-fry, if we’re still invited (we obviously are), so as to forge a working relation with activists up there and pick up others who will be coming to Akwesasne to cross. Then we should actually attempt to cross into Canada at a different spot.

The other possibility proposed last night was to join together with Canadians and any Mohawks who want to cross, and attempt to do so together at a different point.

Eric from NYC DAN: When was that other location to be decided?

Another Woman from that collective: I don’t think it would be strategically wise to say here. But there are definitely people working on it.

Laura: Also we have this. [Someone starts passing a printed version of the first proposal around the room; the spokes all seem to already have one]

Woman: Was there a proposal to talk to the Band Council?

Laura: Actually, I think that’s all we have now. You can offer friendly amendments—but, right now, let’s first move to concerns…

Enos: Hi, I’m Enos and I’m spoking for the Ya Basta! Collective, along with NYC DAN. I’ve heard two concerns from New York folk: First, that the original proposal to just go and cross, from before the delegation came yesterday, is still on the table, and no one’s discussing it; second, that it might be too difficult to make a decision once we get there.

Enos, is a radical cartoonist from New York, fortyish, with a long blond ponytail and only the faintest trace of a Brooklyn accent. How he ended up our spoke is unclear to me; it’s not clear to what degree the Ya Basta! Collective even exists, at this point, though by now I notice there’s now maybe a dozen Yabbas in the room. It seems we’re reconstituting ourselves, at least as an affinity group. At first, though, I’m too busy taking notes to participate much.

Laura: Well, in that case, can someone restate the original plan?

Woman: [reading off the handout] That the caravan proceeds to the fish-fry; we meet there at around 12 noon; listen to two or three speakers and any other events our hosts have arranged; then, at 4PM, after we eat, we return to our vehicles, go to bridge (keeping one lane of the highway open as the Band Council has requested so emergency vehicles and so forth can pass through), meet Canadians at the center, mix together with them, proceed to the other side, and together approach customs.

Laura: Are there any other proposals that needs to be on the plate?

[Apparently not]

Mark: Okay, so the first proposal we’ve heard tonight is go to the fish-fry, keep contact with our allies in Akwesasne, reassess our support, reconvene the spokes, and decide there how to proceed. At any rate, that’s how it stands now—tonight we can certainly add further elaborations to it.

[Spokescouncil members raise hands]

Woman: I have a point of process: are we now trying to come to consensus on this proposal?

Mark: No, we’re not trying to come to consensus, but just to get a feeling for, I guess, which one to start with…

[Three hands shoot up around the table]

Woman: Maybe it would be better to start with a straw poll to see where we’re at, which proposal most of us are leaning to, then do a breakout so that spokes can consult with their affinity groups about how to proceed from there?

Mark: No, I think we really need to flesh this out. There will be sort of a breakout later, when we eat. Then we can all confer in more detail with our affinity groups.

Tony: If we did hold a straw poll, would that be of everyone in the room, or just of spokes?

Mark: I was assuming just the spokes. Unless someone wants to propose we open it up?

[No such suggestion emerges. Until…]

Enos: I’m concerned that this room really represents the bulk of the group that’s actually going to go. In which case we probably should just sound out everyone now that we have them in one place; because the more time goes by, the more people are likely to start drifting away. So the sooner we can confer with our groups, the better.

[Much twinkling]

Laura: Okay, I’m seeing a lot of support for that suggestion. We’ll do it that way.

Woman: Could you read through each proposal first?

Mark: Good, we’ll get a sense of the room, then have a quick breakout.

Laura: How long a breakout are people suggesting? I’m seeing two minutes… five minutes… ten… No, please, not the room, just the spokes… Okay, then, the feeling seems to be for ten.

Mark: Proposal #1 then is to go to the fish-fry and then decide; #2 is to go to the fish-fry, don’t cross, but invite other Mohawks to go with us to another crossing; #3 is the original plan where we all meet at the center of the bridge and try to overwhelm customs.

Laura: I see three hands of spokes who wish to say something. [Makes a stack]

Man with Blond Dreads: I want to put out a proposal that we not go to the fish-fry at all and find an altogether different spot to cross.

Laura: Is there any reason this didn’t come up earlier?

Dreads: The matter was just brought to my attention.

Woman in Yellow: My understanding is that this is supposed to be a gathering just outside the reservation for us to meet with our allies, but also rally for community—Shawn was saying that it was going to be “child friendly,” a kind of party with balloons and games—an opportunity for them to hear us talk about free trade and then for us to mostly listen. Also, they’re making us vegan food—traditional corn chowder—in addition to the fish. Which is amazing in itself. I’ve never heard of such a thing.

Laura: I can see there’s a lot of energy here, but… someone has a process point over there. Yes?

Man: Yes, it’s about that last proposal. If I’m not mistaken, we called this particular spokescouncil to discuss plans for Cornwall. Now, of course, none of us are under any obligation to go to Cornwall if we don’t want to go, but if someone wants to talk about not going to Cornwall at all, shouldn’t he withdraw that from this spokes and simply call for a different spokes for people who don’t want to go?

Laura: Hmmm. [to Dreads] Do you in fact want to withdraw the proposal? Or not?

Dreads: Yes, I’d like to strike it then.

Mark: OK, any more clarification needed on first proposal?

Woman: If we did hold a spokescouncil in Akwesasne, would the spokes there include Mohawks?

[Much discussion. It’s not clear anyone knows.]

Enos: Ya Basta! have just passed information to me that there will be some members of the Band Council at the fish-fry.

Neala: The first proposal says, if we go, we should be “open in our minds” about what to do next. But, like Enos, I would really prefer the decision to be made earlier. We have no idea what things will be like there, whether we’ll even be able to hold a spokes.

Mark: Okay, but technically we’re still back on clarifying questions about the first proposal, not concerns.

Laura: Also, the crowd should not be speaking directly to spokes. The facilitator should. I know it sounds constrictive, but if we don’t do it that way, the spokes can end up feeling ganged up on.

Woman in Yellow: I want to clarify my proposal (that’s proposal #1 now). What we’re saying is the fact that Mohawks are willing to make us vegan food is an amazing, unprecedented show of hospitality. We must come.

Mark: So far, I’m not hearing any clarifying questions but only concerns and supporting arguments. Can I take that to mean we’re moving on to concerns?

Laura: I’m informed the answer to “will Mohawks be involved in the spokescouncil” is “if they want to.”

[She begins writing on one of the sheets of butcher paper on the wall, starting a column labeled “concerns.”]

Woman: Oops. I still have one clarifying question. Would it be impolite to go to the fish-fry and not to cross? Or has this already been asked, and Mac said it wouldn’t be?

Man: Also the idea of reconvening the spokes there, does that…

Mark: I will interpret this question as a concern, now.

Man: …would it go against respect?

Woman: Also, Justin just told me that there will be people coming from all over the Northeast who will be coming straight to Akwesasne, without passing through Burlington. Maybe several hundred.

Mark: That’s an appropriate use of point of information, but I’m still looking for any clarifying questions or concerns, here.

Enos: Concerning the first proposal: what will be the criteria for calling off the action?

Woman in Yellow: If people from the community don’t come, don’t speak to us… If we get a feeling we’re not wanted, then we leave as soon as we can.

Man: If we do cross, will that mean going through customs?

Another man: Is it that we don’t want to do anything on our own—it’s all up to them? We don’t want to do an independent disruption?

Ferd: And, if we’re turned away, will we then go to an alternate site?

Woman in Yellow: The question was, what kind of border crossing will happen with each proposal? In the case of mine, #1, I think the answer can only be: whatever sort the Mohawks propose. Lucy, you’ve been in negotiations with people in Akwesasne. What do you think?

Lucy: I’ve heard no guidelines yet. Other than nonviolence.

Man: Mac told me it would be considered disrespectful if we just go to the fish-fry and then leave immediately.

Woman: If we go to the border, is it all or nothing? What if some of us get through and not others? Do we split up, or do we all turn back in solidarity?

Woman in Yellow: That’s a logistical decision; I think we’re doing logistical proposals after we finish this part.

Mark: So are there any other clarifying questions or concerns about proposal #1? No? Okay. How about #2?

[They restate the proposal ]

Enos: How would this be consistent with following the lead of Mohawk security?

Mark: Okay, that’s a concern.

[Laura writes it down]

Nancy: Hi, I’m Nancy from Pittsburgh. What does it mean to “invite” the Mohawks to cross with us elsewhere? Are we going to sit and strategize with them, or just bring the proposal to them already made? Because, if the former, there’s not much difference between the two proposals.

Woman in Blue [who brought the proposal ]: To me that’s kind of a question of semantics. I don’t know, but we’ll tell them they’re welcome to come with us.

Nancy: But the idea is we come with a preset plan?

Woman in Blue: I don’t see any other way to do it.

Laura: Okay, so we come with a predetermined plan.

Woman in Blue: Due to the situation, many of the people here have no other chance—so I would definitely say “all or nothing.” The first person who’s turned back, the rest of us go too, in solidarity.

[Many twinkles]

This was key: the emerging plan was to overwhelm the border post with sheer numbers, and that would only work if we insisted everyone go through together. So there was some sort of emerging consensus. This having been established, though, we all broke up to consult with our spokes over dinner.

The remains of NYC Ya Basta! was assembled in one corner of the room, with plastic plates full of some kind of vegan couscous and paper cups full of apple cider. It was 7PM. This was, I discovered, the first time that our collective had actually met, in any capacity, since the last abortive training. Moose was gone, but otherwise it was mainly the DAN people—the hardcore faction, never large, had by now completely disappeared. We went over the three proposals quickly and decided that, if we did go, which we probably would, it would be best to stick with the original plan and try to cross at Akwesasne. Proposal #1 felt too weak. Proposal #2 we could keep as a backup if things went wrong. There was also a strong feeling we should support the “all or nothing” principle. We empowered Enos to block any proposal that did not include it. Enos returned to the table and I got some more food, and tried to track down the people I’m going to be staying with to make sure of my housing situation.

A few minutes later, I ran into Kitty from Connecticut, who asked about the Ya Basta! crackup. It was all very irritating to her, she remarked, as a representative of what’s probably the second largest Ya Basta! collective on the East Coast. “I mean, I recognize that the gender dynamics were fucked up. But just throwing up your hands and running off like that. Where does that leave us? Anyway, I have an idea. We still have all the gear lying around. Why don’t we try to have a meeting of everyone who was intending to be part of a Ya Basta! contingent and see what sort of resources we still have, what sort of numbers? Try to see if we can’t still pull something together?”

I said it sounded like an excellent idea to me.

Finally, anyway, I had a project. There was an empty conference room right next to the antechamber, with tables already arranged in a square. We located paper and a magic marker, put up a notice that there would be a Ya Basta! meeting at 10:15, then go off to start alerting possible interested parties.

By the time I got back to the main room and my note-taking, at 7:35PM, things were getting uglier. Apparently the straw poll had split fairly evenly between the three proposals, providing little guidance on how to proceed. Laura was writing concerns, one at a time, on the wall behind her, trying to see what the sticking points are, whether a proposal could be patched together that incorporated all of them. It was beginning to look more and more though like we would end up backing #3—the new argument being that, if we were to show up and not attempt to cross, we would be insulting the Warriors who had arranged the crossing.

Enos: Look, we’re never going to be able to do anything that won’t offend someone. And, yes, sometimes that person who we’re going to offend will be a member of an oppressed group. Maybe we should just get over it.

Laura: Could you speak more clearly, so I can write?

Mark: Also, we’ve been hearing a lot of the same points made over and over, so let me ask you: If you’re on the stack, but someone else voices your concern before you do, please don’t repeat it. Just pass and let the next person speak.

Woman in Yellow: Well, in response to the question, proposal #2 was proposed in response to concerns of people last night. Maybe Russell can enlarge on why I feel it crucial to attend the fish-fry. Russell?

Russell: I fear there’s a lot of confusion about First Nations. In my Nation, if a warrior society was to invite you formally, and offered food and a prized dish, if you were to reject it, that would be the utmost disrespect. I would strongly urge you to support the Warrior Society, as they’ll be on the forefront of struggle, and I’ll go representing my society as well. In my society, there are also “progressives” claiming to speak for all, but the traditionalists should always be the strongest voice.

Man: I feel it’s very important when we get there to see what kind of support we really have in the community before we commit ourselves.

Another man: My affinity group absolutely won’t get through customs. I am still waiting to find out whether we’re being asked to or not.

Mark: Point of information: are there are other spokescouncils, other actions, for those who don’t want to go to Cornwall? Is anyone organizing alternatives? No?

All right, are there other concerns?

Woman: What will happen to any other people who come to the fish-fry if we go off?

Neala: In response to Enos’s point earlier: if we have to offend anyone, it shouldn’t be our allies.

[Scattered applause]

Man: As far as I’m concerned, this whole process is racist. We should have been talking to all parties from the start. It’s unfortunate how we’ve allowed ourselves to be misled by people downplaying the conflict in the community, and I know it’s unfair to say any one person is racist, but a lot of the points I’ve been hearing here are just bullshit. I’m not saying we should go home, or not go, but I really feel obliged to point this out.

Laura: Okay, can I ask that we not identify anyone else’s point as “bullshit” or do similar emotional spin-work? Look, we’re all frayed. But we have to remember why we’re here: We’re here because we’re all trying to figure out the best thing to do in a difficult situation. Also, I’m a little worried people are behaving more irritably because they’re hungry. So, people, if your spoke has not been fed yet, check with them, there’s still plenty of food.

Enos: Look, I’m sorry if I’ve said anything that offended anyone. I understand that we’re all here for the right reasons. I never meant to imply otherwise.

Mark: We must give each other the benefit of the doubt for honesty and good intentions. Consensus is not the same as majority rule; it’s not a competition. We are all working together to figure out the right thing to do.

So, that being said: are there other concerns about proposal #2?

Ariel: Should I read the statement in which we explain to our Mohawk allies why we would be crossing elsewhere, and inviting them to come along?

Mark: Well that sounds relevant, but I think it would be more appropriate to read it later on.

Woman in Yellow: I’m concerned that making such an invitation to the Mohawks would be interpreted as contradicting the original idea of our supporting them. Now we’re inviting them to dismiss their own action?

Laura: [still looking at the list of “concerns” on the wall ] Will this fit into the category of going to their land and ignoring their initiative? Because that concern has already been raised.

Woman in Yellow: For me, it would be the ultimate negation of why I came here, which was to support them.

Enos: If people have worked out alternative locations, I’d hope we’ll hear about them. I keep pointing out that both #1 and #2 presuppose an alternative route but does one even exist? We can’t just improvise this later. We need a plan!

Woman: Remember, the reason it first seemed #2 was most desirable was because we don’t have a clear sense of what the community there wants. I came here to support Mohawks, but clearly there’s a diversity of desires. And some of the concerns I’ve heard ring deeply. I’m swayable…

This could be going on forever. Some insist they are here to support the Mohawk Nation as a whole, and wonder how to do it. Others are here to support our allies, even though it’s not clear who or how many they actually are. Organizers are using cell phones to try to contact Shawn and the Boots family, occasionally getting through long enough to make additional clarifications.

Sizing up the room again, I’m beginning to understand what the problem is. This isn’t just an ordinary crowd of activists. Or even anarchists. It has a distinctive Black Bloc feel. Warcry and Target’s call on the IMC had been far more effective than any of us had anticipated: just about every anarchist who knew for sure they would not be able to get through the border legally, some from as far as LA, were now stuck here in Burlington. On the one hand, there was a strong contingent—Twinkie, for instance, was one of them—who felt that once we had committed to work with Mohawk activists on Mohawk issues, our responsibility was to do right by them, and if that meant we didn’t get to go to Québec City, then so be it. For them, to think of the Mohawks instead as a means to an end, as a way to get through to Canada, was yet another example of arrogant, racist exploitation. Others felt equally strongly that they hadn’t come all the way from Iowa or South Carolina just to have lunch on a reservation, where most people didn’t seem to want them anyway.

I drift in and out, alerting people about the upcoming meeting. In the main room, the spokes are slowly moving towards accepting the original proposal, but no one is particularly happy about it. At 9:48, Enos is almost shouting. “How, exactly, has this plan totally changed in the last two hours? Now they’re asking us to submit ourselves to customs!” Mac is insisting that the plan hasn’t changed, the idea is and has always been to overwhelm customs. By having people come from both sides of the bridge, by having sufficient numbers, we can create a logistical nightmare for them and, eventually, they’ll just wave us through.

Mac: Maybe I’m dense but I don’t see how that’s different than what Russell is saying. And I don’t think the Mohawks will be upset with the idea that we all go through together. Yes, they can detain people at border posts, but it’s not all that common, and if we try to get through at another point along the border, we could end up in jail there too.

Mark: All right, so the plan is we try the original plan, but we have a backup. I see a lot of nods whenever I hear the words “all or nothing,” so do I take it that’s our decision too. If anyone is turned back at first, we all leave and fall back on our contingency action?

[Huge twinkle]

Mark: So that’s the proposal. Are there any more concerns.

[No]

All right, we can finally move to consensus. Stand asides?

[No]

Blocks?

[No]

There we have it.

[Huge cheer rings out]

Someone: Let’s have a round of applause for our facilitators. You guys did an amazing job.

The plan being approved, we move to the next leg, which is logistics. There are two new facilitators. There are speakers from Legal, Medical, and Transport. The legal team starts handing out forms. I head out to meet Kitty and prepare for what everyone’s now calling the “10:15 meeting.”

“Plan B”

Then, something interesting starts happening. Somehow, it’s not at all clear when, the plan for a Ya Basta! meeting transmogrifies into something else. It becomes a meeting, sponsored by Ya Basta!, for everyone who feels stifled by the structure of the spokescouncil, and who wants to talk about strategies for actually getting through. When I first walk into the room, I’m startled: there’s at least sixty people already around the table, a pretty substantial chunk of the activists still in the building, and more trickling in steadily. To some degree, I think many came just for an excuse to sound off. The first ten minutes were an endless gripe session, with an emphasis on just how little they or some members of their affinity group were prepared to submit themselves to customs (endless priors, outstanding warrants, etc.). There was one girl who was seventeen years old, who had run away from home a year before. She and her family had since reconciled, but she was still officially listed as a missing person; presumably, if she tried to cross the border, not only would she be held, but anyone in the same car could be arrested as her kidnappers. Many are especially bitter after having abandoned other, perfectly viable options, such as unpatrolled stretches of forest or obscure rural roads, or chances to cross the border weeks before. Everyone accepts that, yes, we have no choice but to attend the fish-fry. Solidarity is important. Anyway we made a commitment and we have to respect our allies, even if, as some suspect, they hadn’t been completely honest with us. But just what are our chances of overwhelming customs, anyway? Who has real information? And if it’s not possible, isn’t it about time we start working on some kind of Plan B?

I run off to locate Eric, who was, at the time, NYC DAN’s de facto media working group (much as I was for Ya Basta!, except he had some idea what he was doing). Eric had been keeping up with developments from the tech booth, and he gave me a quick briefing as to what he understands the official plan is now. After the fish-fry, we will all march to the bridge. It will be a peaceful march, with 50–100 Warriors and their families, including children, mingling together with activists. Then, hopefully, we overwhelm them. A lot of people are skeptical it’ll work. But it seems the best we can come up with.

As the gripe session continues, I dart in and out trying to find people (Twinkie passes by: “What’s this?” “It’s a meeting of people who want to prioritize actually getting to Québec. Um, want to come?” “No!” She rolls her eyes in exasperation.)

Finally, I locate Mac, who looks jolted to discover upwards of eighty people in a meeting he didn’t even know was happening. “Um, what is the relation of this meeting with the spokescouncil still going on in the next room?”

People ignore the question and launch into questions of their own. One Black Bloc kid from the West Coast with bad teeth is asking what is likely to happen if someone is detained:

Bad Teeth: If someone is detained trying to pass through the border—which I would definitely be, if I submit myself to customs—what’s most likely to happen? What will the Warriors do?

Mac: I would advise you to stay towards the back. If we overwhelm customs, then you won’t need your ID. Otherwise, people in front will be turned back and we’ll all turn back in solidarity.

Bad Teeth: But what would the Mohawk Warriors do? I know I’ll be towards the back. I don’t need you to tell me that. That’s obvious. I want to know if the Mohawks have told us what they’d do?

Mac: They’ll cross along with us. Obviously, they’re not going to attack the border post or anything like that, but as a collective we need to protect each other and, if they turn people back, then fuck ‘em. We’ll just go somewhere else.

Someone: I don’t get it. The Band Council asked us not to block the bridge, to keep a lane open. If we’re going to try to overwhelm customs, we’ll obviously be effectively blocking the bridge. So we’re already defying their will. Why would taking it a little further be so different?

Mac: Look, I don’t have a magic answer, all I know is that as a collective we’re stronger than as individuals.

Someone: Yeah. And also a hell of a lot slower.

Kitty: My personal feeling is that we’re here to come up with an alternative plan of what to do if we get turned away—because if we say “all or nothing,” then, let’s be honest here: we’re probably going to get turned back pretty quickly. Does anyone want to speak to that?

Someone else: Well, does anyone have a map?

Mac: I’ll go get one.

I step out with Mac for a second as he does so, just to check in. I can hardly imagine what a nightmare this all must be for him. “The problem” he says, “is they all want magic answers. There aren’t any magic answers. Anyway, what exactly is the relation of that meeting to the spokescouncil?”

I say “I think people realized that, at the rate the spokes is going, there’s no way we’re going to have a plan down by 11PM when the building closes. So they decided to constitute themselves as an autonomous working group of people who really wanted to get through.”

“Oh. Well, I guess there’s no reason they couldn’t do that.”

“Anarchy in action.”

“Uh huh.”

Before long, everyone inside is looking at maps and discussing logistics, but we hardly get started before someone sticks his head in to tell us it’s 11PM and we’re supposed to be out of the building. People gather on the steps. As cars drive by playing Ramones songs, Eric tries to kidnap me to join with a couple other members of the newly created Media Working Group, to blast-fax some kind of statement from Russell. I tell him I can’t, I had promised to meet up with my housemates at 11:30. The media team heads off to find an open coffee shop. By 11:30, people are still drifting out of the building (no one had actually come to lock it yet) and I finally find my people—Rufus, Warcry, Chango, plus now also Betty the Dancer—who it turns out have all been sitting for some time in a park not far away, under an elm tree, sharing clove cigarettes, waiting for our ride. Kitty, and a large cluster of mostly black-clad activists, set off in another direction, to work on our Plan B. They look rather obvious with their two giant red-and-black flags.

Finally our car arrives, with two women in it already. We all somehow manage to squeeze in.

Most of us are just exhausted. The driver, Sara, a woman in her late twenties, is venting about hygiene issues. She launches into a long diatribe about activists who refuse to wash.

“Oh, yes, the ‘Cruddies,’” said Rufus, agreeably.

“Maybe I’m just old, but I think it’s unsociable. It’s disrespectful of others.”

“What cruddies?” I hadn’t noticed anyone who gave off a noticeable odor at the spokes.

“You know, all those kids with the dirty dreadlocks and crusty clothes, who are pleased with their own body odors? They’re all like eating beans and breaking wind and smelling and refusing to wash?”

“Oh.” Since there seemed little point in arguing, I remark that several groups representing people of color that DAN had worked with in Philadelphia had always made an issue of that sort of thing. “Smelly white anarchists” had become a kind of code word—a form of racial privilege being waved in their faces.

But Sara is not much interested in the racial aspects. “Don’t get me wrong,” she continued. “I understand the appeal. When I was sixteen I was exactly the same way. I was in love with my own personal smell. It was like… well, natural. That’s what human beings are actually supposed to smell like. There’s a certain kind of integrity, I do understand that. But come on! There comes a point where you have to start thinking about other people.” It emerges that, after living for some years as a squatter, Sara had finally gotten a real job in town, with some sort of nonprofit. With a salary, benefits, everything. She was still trying to get used to the new life.

“It’s a phase, I guess. I mean, are there any unwashed activists who aren’t teenagers?”

Her friend Janna, a Catholic Worker from Denver, however, is very much on the racial issue. “I’m still trying to figure out if I should be really angry about this whole thing. I think I really should. The whole process was completely racist.”

“Racist in what way?”

“Racist because we were just working with one tiny group, and didn’t even try to contact anyone else in the community. It was always ‘the Mohawks’ say this, ‘the Mohawks’ want that. As if they’re all like one person. Really they were just talking to two or three people the whole time. Notice how we were even doing it in the spokescouncil. ‘The Mohawks.’”

Now, this is cutting a bit close to home. “Okay,” I said, “you certainly have a point about the language, I’ll give you that, but…” I paused for thought. “Well, what would you have wanted the organizers to do?”

“They should have talked to everyone in the community.”

“And went behind our allies’ backs? I don’t know. It’s really easy to start throwing around words like ‘racism’ when somebody fucks up. But what if we were were dealing with a community of, oh, I don’t know, French people? Or Swedes or something? Would we have behaved any different? Wherever we go, we’re always going to be talking to the most radical elements in the community (and actually, in this case, it was them that contacted us). If we had started making independent overtures to Mohawk politicians behind their backs, people would be saying we were racist for doing that.”

“Well,” she concluded, “maybe the racist accusation is unfair. But I’m still angry.”

“I’m not real happy myself.”

Later That Night

Eventually, they dropped us off at the home of our host, an elderly Quaker woman who had volunteered her house for activists. It was a cozy, carpeted two-story house with a terrace so full of potted plants it was a little like a greenhouse, and a parrot flying around free of its cage. About eight or nine people arranged sleeping bags on the floor. We commiserated over the death of Joey Ramone. Warcry won permission to use the computer in the study upstairs; a while later, she asked me to come up and look at the draft of a story she’d been working on about Timothy McVeigh. Eventually, I drifted downstairs again and ended up in a fairly long conversation with our host about the Society of Friends. Her husband had recently died, but she had children and grandchildren in Burlington and the vicinity. She was from an old Quaker family and had been active in the Church and local activism all her life. So is it true, I asked, that Quaker meetings work by consensus? Because anarchists’ do too, and I’d heard that ultimately a lot of what we do was inspired by the Society of Friends. She launched into a fairly detailed description of how Quaker meetings operated, interrupted only occasionally by wondering comments by me (“Wow, that’s so similar.”). People, she said, sit in a circle. If the spirit moves them to they speak, proposals are made and any one person there can, in theory, block a proposal if they feel sufficiently strongly about the matter. Blocks rarely actually happen, but, in principle, anyone has the power to derail any proposal and the fact that everyone knows that they can is itself enough to ensure they act responsibly. Yes, I said. Precisely the way we do it, too. Giving everyone the power to block is like telling people, “We dare you to act responsibly.” And, generally speaking, unless you’re dealing with a total wingnut, that’s all it takes.

She continued: in a Quaker meeting itself, there’s always a facilitator, who is not supposed to give his own opinion, but simply run the meeting, listen, and repeat if something needs to be clarified. (Uh, huh. That’s just like us too.) Participants can speak only to the facilitator. There’s no cross-talk.

“Wait, you mean no one is allowed to speak to each other at all?”

“No. Conversation is for secular events. A meeting is a sacred event, so you can only speak to the facilitator.”

“Oh, that’s… really different. In our meetings the facilitators keep stack—that is, watch for who wants to speak and keeps count of whose turn it is—but it’s not like you can only speak to them. Usually, you are speaking to everyone, but you are allowed to make a direct response to someone else’s point. So, you can’t do that in a Quaker meeting?”

“No, you can only speak to the facilitator.”

“Why?”

“Because otherwise it would be a secular event.”

I reflected for a moment—between the Thanksgiving ritual, Russell’s prayer, the Quaker notion of meetings as spiritual events—whether there was some significance to the fact that the “process” anarchists are so obsessed with is always, elsewhere, seen as partaking of the sacred. Creating accord is the creation of society. Society is god. Or, perhaps, god is our capacity to create society. Consensus is therefore a ritual of sacrifice, the sacrifice of egoism, where the act brings into being that very god. But I was far too tired, and my brain too fuzzy, to do more than make a mental note of it. Anyway, one thing I did know is that, if this action was going to be anything like the other ones I’d been to, I’d be getting at best two or three hours sleep for the next few nights, and maybe nothing. I mumbled some pleasantries and went to bed.

AKWESASNE

Thursday, April 19

The next morning we got up, did something or other in the IMC in Burlington, picked up something else at the Quaker Meetinghouse, full of activist magazines and fliers, and set off on the caravan. We’re only rolling at 10:46AM.

There are five Ya Basta! vans out of the twenty or so that make up the caravan, which is followed by a rented bus. Warcry had brought huge tinsel streamers from some IMC event to festoon the vehicle. As long as it’s going to be a festive event, she says, we might as well look the part.

The caravan has a comms system, walkie-talkies distributed every couple vehicles or so, and we have one, but the comms people spend most of their time monitoring the state troopers who escort us out of town, and appear, periodically, with cameras filming us at different points along the way. Aside from that there’s not much to communicate but periodic messages like “gorgeous waterfall coming up on the left” or “good music on 105.7.”

In the van, I’m flipping through an endless stack of documents downloaded from listservs and web pages before I left. There’s one about the difference between American and Canadian legal systems and how it might affect protesters. There’s a document about how to deal with the effects of tear gas and pepper spray, and two different documents about hypothermia. There’s a document with pointers on how not to make an ass of yourself on a Mohawk reservation, and another, meant to give activists some background on nationalist sensitivities in Québec. Unlike Montréal, the average man or woman on the street in Québec City cannot be assumed to speak English. They will not take offense if your French is poor, it is much better to make the attempt than to simply accost them in English. My favorite is a circular by the “Québec Medical Fashion Brigade” with detailed advice on clothing:

Today’s well-dressed militant in Québec City for the Summit is wearing long underwear made of the new synthetic materials like soft warm polyester that WICKS away sweat from your skin. Much of the Summit’s perimeter is perched on a hill, and climbing up streets to reach it, or running here and there, will make you sweat. And sweat next to skin can make you cold…

You should have many loose layers that can be removed if you get hot, and put back on when cold… Your outer layer should be water proof. We HIGHLY recommend a cheap rain suit — not only will this keep you dry against the rain or snow, but also keep those nasty pollutants like tear gas and pepper spray from being absorbed by your clothes. As a bonus, it will block the wind too. If you wear fleece, make sure it is beneath your rain gear if you are in a chemical weapon risk zone (near the police). Pepper spray & tear gas gets sponged up by fleece, and then released over time into your face. Yuck! For that extra sexy look, try out those cheapo translucent ponchos folded up in a little plastic bag—it will look like a condom, and you will get extra kudos for your safe sex message!

We understand the objections you might have to not being able to get rain gear in basic black. However, your plastic rain suit is a perfect medium for spray painting (black, right?), magic markers, and all your stickers. Black garbage bags can also work against water and chemicals…

There follow suggestions about gas masks, goggles, the use of bandannas soaked in vinegar as protection against tear gas. I check myself for extra socks, layers, etc. The caravan is moving almost unimaginably slowly, something like 45 MPH on a two-lane highway, and no one is quite sure why.

“I don’t suppose we could at least put on our Ya Basta! outfits for the fish-fry?” someone asks. “It’ll probably be our last chance, since there’s no way we’re getting any of that through customs.”

“I don’t think so. Mac was saying if we even show up looking like we’re prepared for action, it might be taken as aggressive.”

“Well… maybe we actually will overwhelm them at the bridge.”

No one seems to think this is particularly likely.

Hours go by. We move to small rural roads, rolling past abandoned farms and gun shops, going even slower. Someone is explaining his activism all goes back to a childhood realization that the Power Rangers were really evil. Periodically cops film us from the side of the highway, some in uniform, others plainclothes. When we pause for a pit-stop by a river, most of us come out in masks, and some of the men gallantly form a human wall to allow the women some privacy from the cops on the other side of the road, who insist on trying to film them while they pee. At least there are no roadblocks. Finally, after a seeming eternity, maybe around 4PM, the radio crackles “we have a visual on Akwesasne.”

Akwesasne Itself

There was not, as it turns out, anyone to greet us at the main entrance to the reservation, though this might, I reflect, have something to do with the fact that we are by now something like three hours late for a party that was supposed to start at 1PM. Anyway, the scene is desultory. Everything about Akwesasne seems desultory. The caravan proceeds through the reservation to occasional curious stares but there is almost no one even on the porches.

Finally, we pull into a very large space of grass with tables set out for the fish-fry. There are no children. Actually, there is hardly anyone at all. Just a few dozen activists who had been waiting around since noon, a few members of the press, and what looks like four actual Mohawks. Later it grows to six. The food, served on paper plates, is dished out by what appears to be a skeleton crew; everything is minimal; the Boots family is there (Stacey does indeed have his hair cut in a Mohawk, which is somehow strangely gratifying). There are a couple other Warriors who show up now and then to talk to them, apparently scouting police positions over the hill, but that’s about it. It is obvious we have been totally outmaneuvered. The community is absent. Even the location turns out to be an empty lot that is, we later learn from one of the journalists, technically just over the line and not quite on the Reservation itself.

Several activists wander around trying to locate someplace to pee; there are no porta-potties or obvious outhouses, and no one is sure whether it would be considered desecrating Indian land. Finally, someone tells them that the chiefs have said it’s okay to go in the underbrush, as long as we’re relieving ourselves in the opposite direction from the Reservation. I grab some fish with Warcry, until someone calls us over to speak to a news team from PBS Frontline. Warcry shifts instantly, effortlessly, from grumpy to passionate, extemporizing a little speech on the connection between indigenous oppression and the FTAA. I stand by, slightly bemused, and make a little statement of my own about solidarity, then wander off again.

A little ways off, I find Twinkie sitting by herself, on a wooden bench, crying.

I sit down next to her. “What’s the matter, Twinkie? I mean, I’ll admit the scene is a little depressing…”

“No, it’s not that,” she said, trying to smile, even as the tears continued. “It’s the fish.” There are remains of a pickerel still on her plate.

“The fish?”

“I’m a vegetarian. My family is from Thailand. We were brought up very strict Buddhists.”

“Then, why did you eat it? I’m pretty sure they had a vegan option. Cornmeal porridge, no?” Twinkie was, though I hesitated to point it out at that moment, something of an expert at extracting the fish and crab meat from dumpster-dived sushi rolls.

“Well, I thought it would be a gesture of solidarity. After all, here we are on their land. And they made them for us specifically. And, when I was actually eating it, it was okay. But afterwards I just started crying.”

I considered making some kind of philosophical observation about how everybody was feeling caught in double-binds of late, but decided not to. Instead I said: “Really? I didn’t know your folks were from Thailand. I thought I’d heard someone say you were from the Philippines!”

“Huh? No! We’re from Thailand.”

“Were you born there?”

“I was pretty young when my family came over.”

There is a brief ceremony, starting with Stacey Boots giving a little speech from the top of the van. He talks about the history of Native Americans welcoming and protecting foreigners who came with peaceful intentions. “And now, I guess, we’ll protect you.” A Latina activist from New York gets up and gives a speech about how the FTAA is just the latest manifestation of a five-hundred-year campaign of conquest and genocide that began with Christopher Columbus. A folksinger climbs on top of the van with a guitar and plays something called “The Indian Wars.” After one or two spontaneous spoken-word performances from activists, the caravan reassembles and we head up the ramps toward the “toll plaza” where, apparently, we’re going to actually try to cross the border.

Border Action Manqué

Our van is toward the front of the caravan, maybe five cars from the front: me, Warcry, Betty, Rufus, Sasha the documentary filmmaker, and his girlfriend Karen, who is helping him on his video project, since Sasha is at this point going basically as an activist. Karen, on the other hand, is nothing if not a media professional, armed with expensive equipment, and will be documenting everything he does.

There was a long and extremely slow-moving line of vans leading to the border station, which was a cookie-cutter, white, one-story structure with what looked like at least a hundred police officers of various sorts gathered outside, behind numerous barricades. So much for the idea of proceeding directly to the center of the bridge and overwhelming them on the other side. Everyone was going to be checked on this side. We had promised to keep a lane open so emergency vehicles could get through, but it immediately filled with people on foot. At first, as activists began marching up the ramp, the event had some of the quality of a festive march: there was someone on stilts, there were drums, scattered musical instruments, a few attempts at rousing chants. But it was entirely unclear whether this was actually an action. Then, everything stopped. Warcry goes out to scout and never returns. I stick my head out to see if I can catch any signs of our supposed Warrior escort, and aside from one or two who had been on the podium, didn’t see anyone. Certainly no families.

Almost nothing we had been promised had actually materialized.

Betty heads off for a cigarette break, then returns. I end up in a long conversation with her about gender issues, the disastrous Ya Basta! trainings, and the resultant crackup. “It’s not like I actually want to cut off a bunch of little boys’ penises,” she says. “I mean, I understand that little boys need their penises. I really don’t mind if they feel the need to wave them around a bit. All I wanted was to get a word in edgewise. But, as soon as I raise the issue, they all start screaming at each other, and now they won’t even speak to each other and I feel like it’s all my fault.”

“Were they really screaming at each other?”

“Okay, maybe not literally screaming…”

After a while. “So what do you think? Should I go try to find out what happened to Warcry?”

“Sure,” says Betty. “We’ll probably be sitting here for another hour one way or the other. Go stretch your legs. Catch some air. It’ll be good for you.”

Karen volunteers to come with me to see if she can get some useful footage. Sasha gives her a kiss and takes over driving.

I climb out and stroll up towards the toll plaza. As I pass, Moose is taking a cigarette break a couple vans up, looking sheepish, trying to avoid eye contact. There are no Mohawks anywhere in sight now. Neither is there any sign of postal workers, steelworkers, or in fact anyone at all on the Canadian side of the border—though there do seem to be a crowd of Mohawk teenagers behind a chainlink fence in what looks like a huge basketball court some ways beyond the border station, with Mohawk cops patrolling in front of them. A dense crowd of activists is assembled right in front of the border station; some angry, some hoping to talk their way through. There are flags and banners. One woman in black has climbed halfway up a traffic pole, drumming. Periodically, someone tries to start a collective chant. Bad Teeth tries jumping up and down starting a chant of “Days of Rage! Days of Rage!” and a few take it up, but it doesn’t really catch on, and fades back into gripes and muttering.

Finally, I see the reason for the delay. The first van is stopped at the border post; the Canadian police have taken out every single bag that was in it and arranged them all on the asphalt, and seem determined to go through every object in every single one of them. Enos, the driver, was one of the first to submit himself to customs—probably not a good idea, since he had already been denied entry to Canada during the April 1^st action two weeks before. After a few questions, his name is put through a computer and he’s asked to step into a shed-like structure to the side. A minute or two after that we see him being led to a police van, in plastic handcuffs, with a world-weary, exasperated look on his face, a kind of visual sigh.

Warcry is standing with Target and a small cluster of IMC journalists. “Did you see them take off Enos?”

“Yeah.”

“So why are we just standing here? I thought it was all or nothing? Let’s get the hell out of here and go to someplace we can actually cross.”

After a brief parley, we decide we need to do something more dramatic. We’ll gather together four or five people who are definitely not going to get through, but probably also won’t be actually arrested. Warcry and Target are probably known to every FBI agent in the US, but have no outstanding warrants; I am carrying no passport or official ID; Madhava and Jenka had been denied entry on previous occasions. We decide we’ll walk up and formally submit ourselves together. Then, when we’re turned back, we can try to turn the line around and head for another crossing.

Karen offers to document the event on video.

The five of us link arms and advance. Karen, looking every inch the professional videographer in a neat beige jacket, her blond hair tied back, is filming us from up ahead as we advance.

As I step up, I try out a line that had first occurred to me in the van—more than anything else because I’m curious to see what the response will be. “I do hope you bear in mind,” I say to the first policeman, looking him in the eye, “that we’re only doing this to save your health care plans.”

“We’re not unaware of that,” he says. “That’s one reason we’ve decided to go so easy on you guys.”

Oh. Slightly surprised, I wait as they send us each to speak to a different officer. Warcry goes first. Then me. Suddenly I’m being interviewed by a beefy Canadian border officer in a flat white cap.

“Purpose of your trip to Canada?”

“I’m going to protest the FTAA conference in Québec City.”

“So, when was the last time you were in front of a judge?”

“A judge? Well, last year I was on jury duty for a couple weeks.”

Slight impatience. “You know what I mean.”

“As a defendant? Never. I’ve never stood before a judge accused of any crime.”

He nodded. “All right then.” Then gestured me on to a younger officer, a pimply kid who looked like he was fresh out of high school. The kid asked me for my passport.

“Sorry, I didn’t bring one.”

“Driver’s license?”

“No. I’m from New York. I don’t drive.”

Pause.

“A lot of people from New York don’t know how to drive.”

Karen has somehow talked her way over to the other side of the post and is now filming everything from Canada.

The kid is clearly a bit flustered. He goes off to confer with the beefy guy, who appears to be his commanding officer, then returns. “Well, what do you have, then?”

“I have a university ID,” I said, pulling it out of my wallet. It was, actually, a Yale faculty ID but nowhere on the card did it actually say “faculty.” He probably assumed, as most people did, that I was a grad student. He also didn’t seem to care. It had a picture and the picture looked like me.

“Okay,” he said.

“What do you mean?

“I mean ‘okay.’”

I was startled. “You mean…?”

Pointing. “Just move along to that stop sign over there.”

“Wait… You mean I’m through?”

This was one outcome I had never anticipated. I had never even stopped to consider what might happen if I actually got through. The pimply officer was starting to look impatient. Karen was already over the border in Canada; there was an endless line of people waiting behind me, and equally endless-looking bridge in front.

“Well, look,” I said. “I have an agreement with my friends. I promised I wasn’t going without them. Can’t I just wait for them?”

“You can’t wait for them here,” he said. “This is the processing area. You’re going to have to wait for them there, in Canada.”

Since “Canada,” at this point, seems to consist of a short piece of tarmac eight or nine feet away, this doesn’t seem too inherently unreasonable. Karen comes with me, taking some wide-angle shots of the caravan, which is still immobile on the American side. I’m trying to figure out what happened to Target and Warcry, but they’re nowhere to be seen. I think they might have been taken inside for questioning. After a minute or two, though, another border policeman shows up to tell me “You can’t wait here inside the border post. If you’re going to wait for someone, you’ll have to walk over there to that stop sign,” pointing again to a sign by the edge of the road.

We comply. The stop sign, however, seems to be a very large stop sign, because it ends up being two or three times as far away as it had seemed from the border station. Now we’re on a stretch of asphalt far from anything and, for all my squinting, I can’t make out a thing that’s going on at the American side. There’s still a crowd of school kids behind the fence in the basketball court, and we wave to them, but we’re too far away to really see if they wave back.

It was at this point that the huge Mohawk cop with the taser shows up, driving a buggy. One could tell he was a Mohawk cop because on his shoulder is a patch reading “Akwesasne Mohawk Police.” Unlike the police at the border station, who ranged from businesslike to almost friendly, this one looks extremely unaccommodating. He informs us that we’re on reservation land and we’re going to have to move off it and start walking across the bridge. Karen points the camera at him—usually a fairly effective way to elicit better police behavior. He’s entirely unimpressed.

“I’m sorry, officer, you see we’re just here because the border people told us we had to…”

“You’re on Indian land! You’re not wanted by the community. We want you out. You will start moving immediately across the bridge.”

The presence of the taser struck me as a very compelling argument. Anyway, halfway up the access ramp there was another little post and I could make out a couple of activists—they could only be activists, from the way they were dressed—milling about in the same sort of confusion as we.

“Well, you want to come along?” I asked Karen.

“Seems like I don’t have a lot of choice.”

“Well, presumably they’d let you back. And Sasha is still back with the caravan.”

“True. But Sasha would want me to at least try to get some footage from Québec City. I’ve actually several hours worth of blank tapes and batteries in my bag. And this might be our only chance for one of us to get there.”

We start walking up the ramp and discover that the activists we had seen there were, in fact, Kitty from Connecticut along with a couple of her fellow Yabbas—a slender, slightly effeminate Asian kid named Lee, a woman named Andrea—all looking as puzzled as we about having gotten through.

We started walking towards the bridge. After some small confusion, when one group of police told us we couldn’t enter the bridge, and another told us we couldn’t go back (and negotiating access to a bathroom at a small station at the base of the bridge) we took stock.

Needless to say all the Yabba gear was back in the van. I hadn’t even brought my shoulder bag, with my notebooks and other essentials—so convinced had I been that I would not get through. I had the one pocket notebook that was in my pocket at the time; a cell phone with maybe a couple hours juice (no recharger). Otherwise, I had basically what I was wearing: a black hoodie that claimed to have “arctic fill” lining, a black bandanna in the pocket, military pants over thermal underwear, three different cashmere sweaters layered over a fairly nice red formal shirt (I find it is useful to have something presentable for passing through police lines). That was it.

My friends were in much the same fix. No one had any gear or baggage. Except Andrea who had a sleeping bag.

“So much for Ya Basta!” says Lee.

“Yeah, it looks like we’ll all be doing Black Bloc,” Kitty agrees.

“So we are going?”

Kitty gazes back towards the toll plaza. “Well, if we go back, what would that mean? The caravan is moving so slowly there’s no way we’ll be able to even try to cross again until sometime tomorrow.”

“There is a ‘Plan B’ though, isn’t there? I mean, you guys did come up with something after the spokes?”

“Well, yeah, that’s the thing. We did. We figured it was important to keep it secure, so only two people actually have the maps and know all the details. Problem is, one of them is me.”

“The best-laid plans of mice and men.” smiles Lee.

“Well, what’s the chance both of you got through?” I suggest.

Karen has gone off to shoot panoramic footage off the side of the ramp.

“Anyway, it’s not like it was all that amazing a plan. Probably anyone with a good map could have come up with it.”

We decide to at least try to check in with our affinity groups, but I’m the only one whose phone is working. Which is somewhat miraculous. Everyone else’s cell phone conked out hours before we even got to Akwesasne—no one was quite sure whether because of police interference or because we were just too far out in the boonies. I spend a few minutes trying the numbers for Betty, Rufus, and a variety of people on the legal team. In each case I’m sent immediately to voicemail. The same thing happens when Kitty uses my phone to try to contact other members of her own affinity group.

Finally, she says, “I guess it’s kind of obvious what we’re going to do. We can stand here and agonize over it for another hour, and then go, or we can get going now. What do you say?”

“I’m game.”

Everyone nodded.

And so we began to proceed across the bridge.

The Seaway International Bridge turned out to be almost three kilometers long, and was made up of two different structures, connected by a little island in the middle. The road was mostly empty. Very occasionally, a vehicle would pass by, usually a pickup truck. Occasionally, too, Mohawk police buggies zipped by, apparently just to keep us jumpy. We spent a lot of time gazing down into the St. Lawrence Seaway. The view was extraordinarily beautiful. There were inlets, islands, tiny little boats, chalet-like cabins here and there along the shore. Most of it gave a sense of pristine natural beauty, the contours of a coast hardly changed since the first arrival of human settlers ten thousand years ago. Intellectually, I knew this was anything but true: in fact, one of the themes the Mohawk organizers had wanted us to emphasize was environmental racism. There was a GM plant built right on the border of reservation land on the US side (in fact, I thought I could just about make it out in the mist), and the place was so consistently used for toxic dumping that mothers in Akwesasne were told not to breast-feed and babies were occasionally born with their intestines outside. But from the bridge, all this was almost impossible to imagine. It just looked grandiose, beautiful.

The sun was setting by the time we arrived in Cornwall.

CORNWALL

I’m still not sure what the town of Cornwall looks like; I never saw it. What I saw was a kind of loose mall at the end of the bridge, a small, low open space with retail outlets perched on eminences to either side. At the very foot of the bridge, we passed two lines of riot police, maybe forty of them in all, geared up and just standing there, facing a small crowd of perhaps a hundred or two hundred Canadian activists who were clearly the remnants of a much larger crowd. Some were masked. Most looked tired. Both sides seemed slightly ridiculous, dwarfed by the vastness of the bridge. We never saw the promised tea, but we did pass one banner from the Ontario Coalition Against Poverty, welcoming us. Karen dutifully filmed it. Everywhere there were people with cameras but very few seemed to be our cameras. We passed Shawn Brant, standing on the back of a pickup truck making some sort of defiant declaration for Canadian television. He looked just like he did in the photographs.

Scattered among the Canadians were other Americans who, like us, were trying to come to terms with the fact that they had gotten through. Gradually, people began clustering, found a spot on a strip of damp grass near the highway to form a mini-spokes to assess our situation.

Our group split up temporarily to get food. I picked up a cheap chicken sandwich at a take-out joint up the hill, investigated the Walmart. I had never been in a Walmart before. It was vast. I picked up a small bottle of Tylenol with codeine, which I remembered one can get over the counter in Canada, figuring it might come in handy later on. Returning, I discovered the meeting in full session, with some forty American activists sitting in a circle, trying to put together a list of names to convey to Legal so people’s affinity groups back in Akwesasne will know they’re okay, they got through, and to go on without them. We have to hold the meeting masked because we’re soon surrounded by TV cameras. When one extremely self-righteous CBC video journalist refuses to stop filming people’s faces, a few of us are finally obliged to strongly imply we might be inclined to spraypaint his lens. Karen films the confrontation, then uses her camera to document his every move as he eventually starts packing up his equipment. There’s nothing that annoys TV journalists, she explains, more than filming them.

Finally I’m assigned to call in the list on my dying cell phone. I leave a recording on the legal office’s machine in New York and a couple other places, and hope it somehow gets back to people.

By this time it’s dark. The mall is almost empty. Even the cops are gone. There were a few vans when we arrived, most were already leaving during the spokes, including one or two full of Mohawk activists—almost everyone who was actually there at the fish-fry. Mac and Lesley appear and disappear. For a while, I’m afraid we won’t find a ride, but we do, with some School of the Americas protesters, one of the only groups at Akwesasne whose vehicle actually got through. By 10PM we’re on the road to Québec City.