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OLA, sexual assault and justice without the Pigs
On Friday 23rd March, a group of empowered OLA women came together to announce the following to the General Assembly, and seek their assistance in finding a solution. This announcement and ensuing discussion was livestreamed and recorded in the minutes of OLA’s General Assembly. The women’s circle has decided to meet again this week to decide on their next course of action in holding Sam Resnick accountable. A women’s hotline and support group for fellow victims of assault will soon be starting.
On February 16, 2012, Sam Resnick, a former medic from the Wellness committee sexually assaulted a young woman who wishes to remain anonymous. Anonymous was woken up to her crotch area being groped by Sam Resnick as he was heavily breathing which Anonymous is assuming he was masturbating. Post-incident, the victim did not know who to turn to regarding her assault and felt compelled to addressing the issue on her own by trying to confront Sam Resnick herself, and in doing so Mr. Resnick’s response was “Sorry, I don’t know what to say.” Anonymous wishes to not take this matter to the police and seeks to work this issue out as a community. A women’s circle was formed and letters were drafted to Sam Resnick asking that he not attend Occupy LA-related actions for a month to ease Anonymous’ comfort with attending actions and feeling safe. Inclusively, he has been contacted many times to attend a women’s circle to hear the stories of other sexual assault victims and how they have dealt with the emotional damage in hopes that he can understand and provide Anonymous with an honest apology. Sam Resnick has admitted to his actions but has declined to comply with these terms, has not tried to contact us after declining, and has stated on his Facebook: “Taking my professor’s advice and taking a break from activism outside of school for a while. I’ll be back on M1GS.” Sam Resnick asked us to ”Not Parade his personal issues” but we believe that it is important to alert our community, especially the women in our community of what Sam Resnick has done, to prevent further incidents from occurring. This is not a personal issue, this is an issue that affects everyone within our community. There have been some similar incidents that occurred when the camp was still on that went by unaddressed and we feel that is because women did not have a safe space or support group within the occupation to bring awareness to these incidents.
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“Six Months of InTentCity” #M17
Six Months of InTentCity #M17
OLA Flash occupation & street festival
12 PM Saturday March 17, 2012
Solidarity Park at 100 W. 1st Street
Help us create a world where all may thrive
It’s been six months. A sigh escapes my lips as I gaze into an empty Solidarity Park. It feels Jurassic. It’s nearing midnight in a desolate downtown LA, and I’m contemplating some tired ferns and ghostly mist. This isn’t a public square, it’s an exhibit. Where are the dinosaurs and monsters that once roamed downtown Los Angeles? Where are the psychedelic freak shows and the legions of determined youth in Guy Fawkes masks? The yoga instructors, the People’s Collective University guest professors, the pot activists, the spirited drum circles and breakout discussion groups and consensus pizza games… where are they?
The rational side of my brain knows the answer as I look to where Star Tribe used to make camp. All that remains is a scrawled anarchist “A” and a forgotten bicycle tire still locked to the City Hall grate. I remember when City Hall was more than just cold stone and rows of tired flags. I remember when City Hall was alive. Do you?
Before there was the Fascist Fence, there was Love Tribe and Kids’ Village. Before there was police tape and intimidation patrols, there was a bucket of humanity splattered around the seats of power in Los Angeles. Ninety-niners from all walks of life came to Solidarity Park for what is was - both real and imagined. It was a haven for the downtrodden, where basic medical services and food were provided free of charge. It was a boisterous declaration of what could be better, and it was fought for by handing out delicious organic carrot juice or painting a magnificent purple vampire octopus or by living in a fucking tent for sixty days.
It’s been six months. The perspective on that time frame is hard to judge, especially since my pocket watch doesn’t tell time. A cherished gift from a loved one, the timepiece is engraved with my initials and the words, “An Occupier of the People’s Evolution - 10/1/11” The damned thing hasn’t kept time since I received it - which is exactly how a revolutionary watch should be. There is no winning or losing the revolution, there is only the struggle, which is ongoing.
The false urgency the mainstream media shoves down your throat doesn’t matter. The election is a farce, that’s why we began occupying in the first place. The only true urgency can be found in the wisdom of a fellow occupier. When asked what his demand is, he replied, “Come outside.” We have an urgent and immediate duty to come outside and occupy space. We must be visible, we must speak truth to power, and we must come together.
It’s been six months. Six months since those brave few in Manhattan pitched tents and planted black flags for freedom. But its also been years for the Egyptians, decades for the Palestinians, and centuries for indigenous peoples and our comrades of color. This oppressive system is not simply going to roll over and die. We must smash it.
In these few months we’ve seen the sophomoric debt ceiling argument fade away to be replaced by mentions of capitalism and income inequality. We’ve witnessed tens of thousands take the streets. We’ve had the pleasure to facilitate over a million people move their money to credit unions and pressured Bank of America into hastily reversing their $5 debit card fee. In just six months, millions of Americans have been shocked awake to the gross realities of illegal foreclosures and police brutality. What comes next in this revolution?
It’s up to us. The rollercoaster of activism is filled with joys and miseries, victories and setbacks. Luckily for us, this revolution is also sometimes blessedly funny. It’s funny because there will be cuddle puddles and safety breaks at this festival. Emma would be proud because this revolutionary festival also has dancing, courtesy of DJ M1GS and all you movers and shakers out there. This revolution has tasty vegan food, courtesy of volunteers in our Food Committee and Food Not Bombs. This revolution has truth, courtesy of teach-outs and OLA’s Freedom School. The revolution will not be televised… you’ve got to Come Outside.
We’re still here, and we’re growing. This Saturday, Spring is here.
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Lessons from #F29 and Argentina
In Argentina, where the people took command of many highways for weeks, every driver who wanted to, could make her/his case in front of the impromptu “intersection GA,” explaining why he should be given permission to pass. Then, the GA would discuss it until it would arrive to consensus. If a consensus was not reached, the driver would not pass. I happen to be in a public bus crossing that people’s picket line. We waited for about an hour and we were given permission to cross. Some trucks had been there for days. Some drivers where given permission to pass after 6 hours of deliberation, some after 6 days, and some were turned back.
When we shout, “Who’s streets? - Our streets!” we mean we, the people, have the power to stop or to let pass vehicles as we see fit. This world is our world, these roads are our roads, the decision is our decision. We the people are policing (making a policy) the intersection as a collective. Our personal opinion is relevant only as a brick in the collective consciousnesses.
So exerting our people-power does not mean a dogma in which nobody passes. It means that we (the collective of the people who took-over the intersection) decide via our direct democracy body (the GA) who passes and who does not. And if we as a collective can’t come to a decision, the driver waits. The people in the cars wait for the people’s decision. Our roads, our streets, our world. This is what democracy looks like.
Yesterday at Walmart in Mira Loma was a far cry from that direct democracy I saw in Argentina. When a truck approached our picket line, we blocked it, but when the driver came down to plead with us to let him pass – all hell broke loose. Most people completely ignored the driver, some came to talk to him, and yet others yelled out-loud that “no matter what he says, we should not let him through.” As the driver explained that he might be fired if he does not let go, and show us that his truck was empty I heard people yelling, “well if he will be fired he can join Occupy.” A group of us was trying to organize a “mini GA” around the truck; however, while we were discussing the situation, the driver used the chaos to pull into an adjacent parking lot and sped away.
We must recognize that our people are a product of our individualistic competitive culture of capitalism. Many of us had never experienced “community” till the occupation. We are not racist or sexist, although we all may have these tendencies - after all we all breathe the air of a country that was founded on the annihilation of indigenous people and the enslavement of Africans. Yet, we are the only people we have; we are the people who stood in the trenches yesterday at Walmart. We are the people who stand and speak at the GAs. Like it or not, our comrades are a product of capitalism (just like we are) but something in their hearts cries freedom; something in their hearts wants to release the racism, the sexism and the privilegism; to throw away the burden of colonizer-consciousness and to be free in a new and just society. That is why we all have join the Occupy movement and that is why we all came down to shut down Walmart. And like it or not, they/we are our comrades, they/we are the ones we must educate and radicalize for a new world to come forth.
Incidents like the ones at McArthur Park (“parachuting” into a community) and Walmart come about not only to show us that the colonizer-consciousness is still within us, but also to help us purge it, clean it, release it. Only via such incidents can we grow as a movement. We must accept that we are an “experiment in progress” (that is how the Zapitistas call their autonomy), and as such we will stumble time and again. But as long as we are able to admit our stumbles, to remember that we all are a product of capitalism trying to create something which is totally unlike capitalism, as long as we do not call our comrades names but instead educate and support each other in our stumbles and growth - another world is not only possible, it is inevitable.
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White OLA Fucks Up Local Communities
Background: Reformist members of OLA have been holding a picnic, without GA approval, and with the overt opposition of Radical OLA, in Macarthur Park. After Revolutionary Autonomous Communities (RAC) politely told picnickers to be more cognizant and respectful of the local community, the picnickers were asked by Radical members of OLA to find an alternative location. They refused. On Sunday, February 26th, this happened:
It was a sure sign that ‘God’ loves RAC-LA and “don’t like ugly”.
RAC-LA which has for 4 years and 4 months operated a free Food Program by, with, and for the poor, homeless, migrant and unemployed residents of the MacArthur Park area found the police called upon us because we were blocking off a space so that trucks bringing food and carrying away compostables (the bins of which weigh can easily weigh above a hundred ponds.)
Lately the park has seen an opportunistic invasion on Sundays as some people who call themselves ‘The Occupicnic’ seeking shelter for their ‘picnic’ in a working-class area, i.e. where cops are less likely to bother them.
A woman named Debbie’ (SEE PHOTO ATTACHED) pulled up and demanded this spot because she had a handicap sticker. Being handicapped she had no more ‘right’ to the space than any other of the many cars that had passed by looking for a space Sunday—or the 10s of thousands that have passed by us since we’ve been here—saw what we were doing and got on. There was a handicap space right across Wilshire and two more around the corner on Wilshire. Pitiful piece of shit playing the victim so as to dictate her will.
This woman strikes me as a professional victim whose been playing ‘cards’ all her life. She had no greater ‘right’ to the space than the over 100 vehicles that had passed by today or the thousands since we’ve been there and respected what was being done. Or the at least 3 cop cars that had passed todau and the hundreds if not thousands of time they had passed us us ‘breaking the law’ for 4 and a third years.
4 and a half years the cops have passed us by and said nothing about our cones blocking off parking after some initial confrontations that ceased with our workers having acquired the support that the local residents give us. Now, she done put it in the cops faces that they ain’t ‘doing their jobs’ and we expect to be under pressure with this for a while now making it difficult to take food off the trucks and putting compost bins on the truck.
This is where the problems with these people has been all along: they assume that their ‘work’—if you can call it that—has to be more important than anything the locals (whose territory they are invading (not occupying)) could possibly be doing. Saw that about a month ago when one of them came and started to get some of our cardboard (that a member recycles) without asking. Another did the same prior to that with fruit. Its rankest privilege. Its the assumption that what they’re doing is certainly more important than anything that the mere working class might have organized itself to do. Its the assumption that these neophytes and wanna-bes are entitled because they think they are what they think they are. There is also member of OLA whom I have witnessed communicating with the police, inviting them to food. RAC-LA does not cooperate with the police. We survived their harassment of us at the beginnings and periodically since by the strength of our membership and those we give food to in staring down and, occasionally, standing them off. This situation presents complexities seemingly not understood by members of OLA.
When I went down and called them out one silly m’f’er said “I’ll tell ya what to do…Get your people to stand with you.” What the fuck did this young jerk know about anything? He hadn’t a clue to the years of hard work that RAC-LA had put in and faced down with the cops.
It ain’t just a sign off a lack of class consciousness its signs of plain old self-important rudeness.
Here’s where I blame that group as a whole in the park: They apparently gave no time to brief their members on the neighborhood. This itself might indicate that they themselves took no time to find out about it. And, in spite of this woman calling the same m’f’ers who beat up and kicked out Occupy LA, they took no action to kick her out which is the only way that they might have salvaged some of the motivations that caused the group to be formed in the first place. Salvaged some credibility.
If she’s is yapping to the cops about us over a goddamn parking space what else might she be yapping about. This fucking snitch ought not be welcome anywhere anybody is trying to do anything about the state of our class.
Below is a picture of the OLA snitch. Apparently the woman is called Debbie and has been attending OLA GA’s for only a few short weeks.
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Solidarity Forever Alex
OLAASM mourns today the loss of a true comrade, Alex Weinschenker, who fell victim to the disease of addiction and the illegal war on drugs. Alex was a radical, an anarchist, a fearless warrior for the Occupy movement, and an incredibly talented artist. Even those who did not know Alex personally probably wore his artwork on bandanas, t-shirts and scarfs, saw his signs waved at protests. Alex worked tirelessly in OLA’s Printlab with his good friends Kat, Jesse and Eddie, and was a proud and much-loved member of Bike Scum. He leaves his spirit behind in a beautiful son, River, and Devon, the mother of his child. His OLA family will miss him greatly, and always strive to embody the uncompromising principles of our tireless comrade. Solidarity Forever, Alex.
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Fuck your “letter of intent” - Open Letter to Occupy Congress
http://ola-asm.tumblr.com/post/18077424025/occupy-congress-a-festering-pile-of
The price of transparency… just be ready for stuff like this. I wish they would comment on our listserv with their grievances instead of publicly attacking us… Does anyone have any info in this? I know someone from OLA media is on here. Do you have any comments about it? Is antisocial ola media a part of you?
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Building Something Better Than A Building
My involvement in the Battle Against the State of Oakland had its roots from the aftermath of the Regents meeting at University of California, Riverside. The day that followed was coincidentally an intensely emotional experience, as we sat in our tents on the lawn of UCR, recovering from the battle we waged with the Regents, UCR police, and Riverside Sheriffs.
That day we discussed how in each of our lives the state had either violently interfered to escalate a situation or had failed to provide the support we desperately needed. We thirsted to change the system which had oppressed us for so long. We were hungry to reformulate our lives, each other and our community. It was that early afternoon, that one of us stumbled upon news of a library occupation at Cal.
By the time we arrived in Berkeley, the library occupation was over. Instead we decided to roam the Bay and learned about Oakland’s Move-in Day. The Bay Area is tragically beautiful; it is a swift breeze of salty refreshment from Los Angeles. We couldn’t stay away… and that is how we ended up in urban warfare and I ended up in jail.
The morning of Move-in Day, I woke up thrilled at the prospect of helping Oakland take a building to transform it into a community center. We had spent the night at our comrade’s apartment in Berkeley. All thirteen of us crammed into a tiny studio.
We left at about 10:30am to arrive early for a quick meet-up with our other comrades from Los Angeles. The sun shone brilliantly, promising a gorgeous day in Oakland. At 11am, people had just begun to gather. Final touches were put on signs. Art supplies were organized. Food was loaded to be used later for the dinner at our new building. We had proclaimed a whole schedule of events for the day at the building we hoped to take.
Before the rally even started, there was an arrest. Police grabbed someone from the crowd. We formed a circle around them, chanting “the whole world is watching” “let him go” and “fuck the police.” Police responded aggressively and pushed protesters with their batons. It was still early, and already the tone was set for the day. Thank you, Oakland Police.
After the rally at about 1pm, we took the streets. We spilled out from Oscar Grant plaza and to the corner of Broadway and 13th. Some of us in the crowd held shields with spray painted peace signs. Others held three large corrugated shields with spray pained messages: “Oakland Commune,” “Commune move in.” and “Cops move out.” It was a defense; November 2nd and Scott Olsen was still a recent painful memory. The image that circulated the Internet of his cracked, bleeding head was still freshly imprinted in my mind. I did not want to be tear gassed. I didn’t want to be hurt or killed. But I sure as fuck did not want to continue to live in this oppressive world.
To take the streets always feels liberating. My heart pounds, my smile lifts, as we march through Oakland. Behind us are mobile speakers and a large truck. Music is all around us. We are joyous. We are the people and collectively we have power. It vibrates within us, we are young, beautiful radicals and we will change the world.
The police follow us. They are ready to control us. It is their job. They do it so well; their consciousness was beat out of them a long time ago.
The decision to march through Laney College is made. The pathways are narrow, we slow down, we lose the music truck. I have no idea where we are going. Someone shouts out a suggestion to occupy a building at Laney. We keep walking and stream into greenery and a lake.
The police stand in a line, blocking us from leaving Laney. As usual we face off with the police, then walk around, across the bridge and emerge to see the first building we want to take. The fucking Kaiser Convention center. It is a magnificent building. It would have made a wonderful community center.
As we walk the perimeter of the building, the police are already lined up around it. The fence is torn down. I am in awe, I am pregnant with hope. When the first canister hits the ground, I am talking to my friend. I hear her scream. I think it’s tear gas and I prepare myself for stinging eyes. I have not experienced tear gas, I’m not sure what to feel. Nothing happens, more canisters, more flashes, more screams, and people rush the fence opposite the building, knocking it over in a mad dash to escape the smoke that we all believe is tear gas. It’s not. They are smoke and flash grenades. My friend disappears in the crowd. I look for my comrades to ensure their safety.
The police draw their paintball guns. I am standing behind one of the barricades. They point to us. Bile piles into the back of my throat. I am their enemy. Through their megaphone they announce that the “State of California” declares us an unlawful assembly. I have lost count on the number of unlawful assemblies I have been a part of since October. I am an assembly, I am peaceful, I am here because this is my world and I want to change it. They don’t care. We duck behind the barricade, unsure of whether they will fire, whether we should stay.
The crowd begins to trickle out. The police presence is heavy. The situation is impossible, the people are not ready.
Our march moves to where the Battle of Oak Street begins.
The Battle of Oak Street occurred in front of the Oakland Museum of Natural Science in the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday. This was not your usual battle zone. Another face-off with the police. The shields are asked to advance to the front.
The shields advance, I stand behind them. All of a sudden, there are flashes everywhere around me and the street is filled with smoke. Car alarms erupt from all sides. There are yells and screams - “Medic!” My eyes start to burn, I can’t breathe; my face is on fire. It is tear gas. I gasp for air and begin to retreat away from the smoke. A flash grenade explodes in front of me. I stumble to the sidewalk, and look up to see a dizzying array of families standing on the steps in front of the museum in shock. There are more whistles and shots. A heavy smoke hangs in the air. People are milling around in shock; many with Maalox and vinegar on their faces. The burning on my face continues but at the moment it doesn’t matter. I am in shock. I am given a gas mask, which I slip on with shaking fingers. We return the front line. Then the police start to fire bullets. I huddle behind the shield. I can feel the impact of the shots as they hit our barricades. More tear gas. The gas mask is not tight enough; my lips are burning. We begin to retreat.
Days later when I watch the youtube videos of the Battle of Oak Street, it didn’t make any sense. It is so different to be on the inside, then it is to see it displayed from the outside. I have no perspective, it’s all a hazy smoke; all I know is that we must put our bodies on the line against the police state. It is only by being fearless in the midst of fear that we can win. What else can we do when they start to fire at us? We are not violent; we want to change the dominant narrative of private property. The Convention building currently lies vacant, we want to turn it into a useful space for the community and the movement. We don’t want to ask permission; this is a revolution - did Rosa Parks ask permission to not move? Did she check with her local police force before she committed her act of disobedience? At some point we must no longer obey because we are told to do so, we must do what is right. If the State responds violently, we must not back away, we must continue to fight; it is our duty.
We return to Oscar Grant Plaza to recuperate. We are hungry. We are high on adrenaline. We are soldiers in the fight for justice and equality. It feels surreal to return to the sun, to sit, to laugh, to smoke a bowl. Was I just tear gassed? Are we doing it again?
My face still burns and I need to go the bathroom. I go with my comrades to find a restroom, which is almost impossible, as we go from business to business hoping someone will let us use their facilities. “Please, we were just tear gassed,” we plead at a dentist’s office. The workers look at us in shock, but refuse us. “It’s part of the rules,” the young man informs us firmly. Finally Oaksterdam allows us in. My comrade gives me some vinegar to put on my face to help with the burning. It soothes the skin and makes me feel ready to take the streets gain.
We rest for almost an hour and then we take the streets. The sun sets; once it gets dark it will be that much harder.
We go to our second location, but the police are right behind us. First we are trapped at Snow Park. The police surround us on all sides. There is an order of dispersal followed by more tear gas. I find myself yelling, “Don’t run. Walk. Don’t panic. Walk” as people push each other to escape the tear gas.
But people are panicking. We take down the fence surrounding the green field in the middle of the park and run across it to escape the police kettle. We flow across the grass in a glee of liberation. We are free. The police cannot stop us. As my feet reach the pavement on the other side of the park, I realize I have won. The march continues down Broadway. I don’t care where we are going now. The beauty of collective action envelopes me. We are the people. We are brave, we are united, we are together, we can do anything; they can’t stop us. Collectively we are smarter, we are faster, we will always win. The rest of the march is a blur. I’m not sure when we were kettled again, but we were. The State and its guard dogs were done with us.
We are stopped in front of a YMCA. A handful of people get inside the YMCA and escape. The rest of us are pushed down the stairs and from the streets and into the sidewalk and the corner. Again screams, as we fall over one another, trying our best to not fall and to not trample. A few minutes later the police announce, “You are all under arrest.”
At first I don’t believe it. There are hundreds of us pressed against this building. They can’t possibly arrest all of us. Maybe they’ll let us go.
We start to chant, “Let us go” and “This is illegal detainment.” I have no idea where my comrades are. I hope that they are out. Instant solidarity forms with the people in my kettle. Strange conversations are happening around me, “I’m sorry I won’t be home tonight. I think I am under arrest. Looks like I’ll be going to jail. I’m so sorry,” says the man behind me to someone on the phone. The woman next to me is indignant. “This is against the law. You can’t detain me. I’ll call my council members. Call the media,” she yells out. But the State doesn’t care. If we get out, it’s because we’re not worth it. In retrospect, ruminating on the events of the day, there was never a chance we would not be arrested. We threatened and twisted their authority all day long. In America that’s not ok; we are not supposed to rebel.
As the realization that we would be arrested sunk in, the weed and alcohol erupted. Massive blunts, joints, bowls, handles of alcohol are handed to me. The kettle turns into a party. It is liberating to watch them watching us; at least we have fun no matter what we do. There is nothing in the world more fulfilling than what we do and we all know it; we are free, as we are arrested.
It takes hours to arrest us. Later I heard that there were 409 arrests. We were kettled at around 7pm, I arrived at Santa Rita at about midnight. My plastic cuffs were so tight, I could not move my wrists for hours. My fingers lost all feeling and the bumps on the bus to Santa Rita were almost unbearable. When they finally remove the cuffs, I start to cry.
I am released on Monday morning. I spent two nights and a day in a holding cell. Jail is violent. It is a violent violation of your soul. The experience of forced lack of freedom is powerful. It is also terrifying. At Santa Rita’s detention center there are no blankets; the food consists of bologna, bread, an orange, two cookies, and a calcium drink; time is non-existent and you never know when you may be released. It is a horrific process which dehumanizes you as your curl up on a hard bench, hands pressed inside your thighs for warmth.
Tears cloud my eyes when I see my comrades on the outside. The best thing about jail is the feeling of getting out. There is nothing better.
The revolution is a mix of victories and failures. For me it is already a victory because we are fighting. We don’t always win the battles, but we face Goliath. But with each action our collective power grows. We did not take a building on January 28th, but we built something so wonderful and so massive that two weeks later I still cannot fully grasp it.
All I know is that it is absolutely fucking better than a building.
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