The 29M Strike in Barcelona: tear gas, rubber bullets & flaming garbage

On Thursday I posted live updates on events that occurred in Barcelona during the 29M general strike as I encountered them throughout the day. It was a unique experience, attempting to capture what was happening as the day went by. Eventually posting live became more difficult, as technology and the quickening pace of the action conspired against me.  

This is the rest of the story.

Just after 6pm I crossed Plaça de Catalunya and headed to nearby Cafe Zurich, where a few friends who had come to attend the demonstration were waiting. Out front of the cafe, the Confederación Nacional del Trabajo (CNT) anarcho-sydicalist union were preparing for the march. Unlike the larger Spanish labour unions, the CNT have no hierarchical structure. There is no one Union leader taking a large annual salary, and no elected representatives. Union decisions are made by committee using the tenets of direct democracy. The union and its supporters gathered here were a diverse collection of faces -- old and young, male and female, and more than a few young children getting their first taste of a labour uprising. 

The CNT -- and its more modern incarnation the Confederación General del Trabajo (CGT) -- started to move just before 6:30 in the evening. But rather than head for the massive crowd buzzing about Passeig de Gràcia, they struck out in the opposite direction, moving up along Carrer de Pelai. The members walked slowly behind a white truck that had been outfitted with large speakers lying on the flat bed. The speakers played an old Spanish song for the workers; full of sombre guitar chords and haunting vocals. The workers marching behind the truck waved the flag of their anarchist union -- two triangles, one black, one a deep red. We were confused by the CNT/CGT decision to apparently launch their own demonstration, but we were familiar enough with the union to know they have a unique way of doing things. It occurred to me that they might be moving toward Carrer de Balmes to circle back, and merge with the larger group via the upper lanes of the Plaça. 

We opted to rejoin the group in Plaça de Catalunya. Crossing the street, we moved toward a collection of protesters at the lower end of the square, across from the Olivia Plaza hotel and the Hard Rock Cafe. The tension in the group gathered at this end was palpable; they were all staring out toward Avinguda del Portal de l'Angel, straining on the tips of their toes for a better look at whatever was happening, or about to happen. Some had hopped up onto the stone railings that line the square, determined to get a better view.  

This is when we heard the first gun shots. 

We could not see the weapons, but we didn't need to -- the sound was unmistakable. Rapid bursts of gun fire aimed at the people on the street a few metres away from us. Those straining for a better look on the steps of the square suddenly turned and ran toward us in a panic, frightened by the sight of rubber bullets being sprayed into the crowd, and looking to get out of harm's way. When the brief outbreak of panic subsided, we moved down the steps and onto the street for a closer look. The Mossos had blocked off the street on the other side of Passeig de Gràcia with a few of their armoured vans. One friend mentioned that the squad seemed to be there to defend El Corte Inglés; the up market, overpriced department store that looms over the public square. The protesters on the street, particularly those closest to the armed police, were standing their ground; holding their arms up in the air, hands open and palms turned out toward the Mossos, trying to signal that they were not a threat. It didn't matter. Another round of rubber bullets would ring out, and people would retreat back quickly. The police also used larger bean bag rifles. During brief glimpses I saw them working in two man teams. The shooter would dart out from behind a partner holding up a full body plexi-glass shield, fire the cylindrical bean bag rifle, and move back behind the cover of his partner. It was an efficient plan of attack. 

We didn't fancy taking a stray rubber bullet -- or a rogue bean bag, for that matter -- in the face, so we decided to move back up into the confines of the main square. We walked quickly across to the northern end of the Plaça. Moving up toward the group offered a chance to take in all the different flags raised in the air above the bandanas, mullets, and Guy Fawkes masks. Some were familiar; the flags of the various trade unions were scattered across the crowd. The Catalan National flag was flying everywhere, joined by that of Greece in a show of solidarity with their embattled comrades in austerity. Someone had brought out the defunct Soviet standard, crimson red with the iconic gold hammer and sickle. The flag of the second Spanish Republic, with its bottom stripe of purple rather than the red of the traditional Spanish flag, was also on hand. You could also see the variant used by the International Brigades that fought with the Republicans in the civil war, with a red, three pointed star replacing the coat of arms. Flags for Catalan independence were more than abundant, including a version I was told belonged to Terra Lliure (Free Land), a once militarised Catalan separatist group, similar to the ETA of the Basque country. 

We waded into the centre of the crowd at the top of Plaça de Catalunya. Moving through the masses on the streets took patience and determination, and a willingness to take a few blows in the chest or the back. Collisions were impossible to avoid, but in typical Barcelona fashion, no one took it personally when struck by an errant shoulder, or the sting of a sharp elbow. A simple "perdona" or the wave of your hand sufficed. The people had not come to fight, at least not with each other. Once in the middle of the street, we had a chance to see how far the crowd stretched. As far up as you could see on the horizon, no grey concrete of the street was visible. The sea of people stretched straight up along the Passeig, filling the side walks on either side, obscuring the entrances to the endless number of shops that the street is famous for. Here we were reunited with the CNT contingent, who had indeed circled back, looking to eventually join with the main group on the Passeig. 

They wouldn't get their chance to blend into the march, though. Trouble was brewing on the other side of the of the road. 

A platoon of Mossos vans had come to barricade Ronda de Sant Pere to the right of Passeig de Gràcia. Without warning, the crowd was charged, either by shielded foot soldiers in heavy riot gear, or by the vans themselves -- it was impossible to see from where I stood. Once again the people screamed and turned toward us, dashing off for safety. We moved back with them, closer to the CNT idling behind us. These charges from the police repeated a few times, but there were no rubber bullets or bean bags being fired this time around, which I suppose could be seen as an improvement in the situation. The protesters at this end of the Plaça didn't see the brightside of not being shot at, though. Once we had been forced back far enough from the main group, I could see a thick pillar of black smoke rising up from the street; moments later I caught sight of orange flames flickering up in the distance, just beyond the heads of those standing in the middle of Passeig de Gràcia. Protesters had started a fire in one of the large garbage bins that can be found on many street corners across the city. 

I had encountered one of these garbage fires earlier, on Carrer de Rosselló, just after the Mossos had descended on the first gathering of the day, where the Passeig intersects with Diagonal. Garbage had been collected in a pile in the middle of the street, and set ablaze. Walking back toward the obelisk in the middle of the intersection, I noted the smashed windows of some of the shops on Rambla de Catalunya; but it was the Deutsche Bank building at the top of Passeig de Gràcia, to the Northwest of an obelisk set in the middle of the intersection, that had taken the brunt of the outrage. The glass on the main doors had been smashed, and various colours of paint had been splattered across the bank's façade. I couldn't tell what had come first, the fire and the destruction, or the Mossos driving their vans into the crowd gathered in the street. I know that before the police arrived on the scene, people seemed quite happy just to be on the street with their pots and pans. I did not see any violence until the Mossos turned up, dressed in heavy armour and flailing their truncheons at whoever was unlucky enough to be in range.

The fire burning now, at the top of Plaça de Catalunya, had a greater fury to it. Sandra, one of the friends I had met with earlier, described it as a symbol. The elites -- the government, the corporate oligarchs, and controlling EU in Brussels -- see the masses as trash, but in reality the people are the fire, burning over what is being forced on them by those in control. Sandra disagreed with the act, feeling that the burning of the garbage -- full of cheap plastics sending toxins into the air -- was mindless, and counter productive. But she understood perfectly what the fire represented. 

Behind us the CNT/CGT collective had turned their truck around and were beginning to move away from the main group again. They announced over a loud speaker their plans to head for Plaça Universitat. Realizing that the march was -- between the Mossos charges and the sheer number of people clogging the street -- stalled for the time being, we decided to stay with the CNT contingent, and walked with them toward Universitat. Reaching Carrer de Balmes we found another large trash fire on the street; this time the bags had been pulled out of the large containers, piled up, and ignited. The bins had been toppled over and pushed into the middle of the road in an attempt to block traffic. The fire produced a strong heat that you could feel even from fifteen or twenty feet away. In front of the bins a little boy, no more than 8 or 9, stood in the street, waving a CNT flag in one hand with the other raised above his head, two fingers arched to make a "V".  The boy drew applause and attention as people passed by, stopping to snap photos of the little revolutionary. Walking past the boy I glanced up the street behind him; a block or two away another squad of police -- with their riot gear and armoured trucks -- waited patiently. 

Shortly after arriving at Plaça Universitat we lost site of the CNT strikers -- they seemed to disappear, having only minutes earlier collected in the centre of the Plaça.  Looking back the main column on the Passeig seemed to be dispersing outright. We wondered if the march might be breaking up. A friend of Sandra's had called her a few minutes earlier, and was on his way to meet with us. He had told her that the protest stretched up past Diagonal, heading into Gràcia toward the mountains. He joined us a short while after; by that point it seemed the march really might be over. People were walking away from the main gathering in increasing numbers. We turned onto Gran Via and were greeted by more bodies moving away from the protest. 

Making our way back to Passeig de Gràcia, though, made it quite clear that the protest was nowhere near ending. 

The street was still jammed. People had collected on the thin circle of grass that surrounds the central fountain where Gran Via and the Passeig intersect. Others had climbed up onto the benches and light poles that dot either side of the street going north and south, hoping to get a better view of the stand off between the police and the protesters at the top of Plaça de Catalunya. We made our way into the middle of the street, straining to get a better view ourselves, which proved futile. The street was completely swollen with crews of union members, Indignados, anarchists and "flautas" young and old, that the only way to judge that something in front of us was happening was when the crowds quickly ran back each time the police pushed forward. The crackling sound of rubber bullets firing, followed by screams and cries as people fled the danger. We found ourselves stuck in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by the masses on either side; there was nowhere to move to. The protest was being packed tightly onto Passeig de Gràcia, and we couldn't see what people were running from. 

Then we caught our first glimpse of white smoke rising up through those in front of us -- tear gas. 

We didn't see the first cannisters that had clearly been lobbed into the group ahead of us, but we caught a glimpse of the next volley. Three silver cannisters rose up a dozen or so feet in the air before spiralling back down into the crowd, a thin trail of white smoke following behind as they fell. Upon landing the area became choked with gas, forcing people to cover their mouths and turn up toward our position above the fountain. While this offensive played out in front, to the right of us more people were running into the column from Gran Via. The Mossos had opened a second front on the protest, pushing in from Balmes. These were most likely the squads I'd noticed earlier, a few blocks behind the boy displaying his CNT colours. We were being kettled. 

The scenario repeated a few more times. Tear gas cans would launch, people rushed for cover and the Mossos gained some ground, or at least held the line. The larger column was being cut off from the more militant group in front of El Corte Inglés, where the large trash fire had been set an hour before. But as swift as the incursions against the crowd had been, they ceased just as quickly. This was the tactic I had witnessed earlier in the day; whirlwind, disorienting shows of force before falling back for extended periods. The return of a bit of calm allowed the different groups around us to come back into focus. There were small drum circles with people dancing in the middle. An older couple played crude music by blowing on horns; the man with something that looked to be carved from the bones of a large animal, or an elephants' tusk, and the woman on a large conch from the sea. The mood up here remained festive and kinetic, despite the threat of tear gas and rubber bullets. There were news vans on either side of the road, their satellite dishes aimed upward, their cameras constantly filming. It seemed their presence kept the Mossos -- not eager to be filmed firing their non lethal weapons at the protesters -- from pushing further up through the march. 

Eventually, exhaustion set in. My legs ached from the day's walking and I was parched from so much time out in the hot sun. I decided to head home, while the rest of my group opted to go for a drink. It was clear the stand off would continue well into the night. None of us would have been surprised to find the streets full of the outraged, and the Mossos, had we decided to return at one or two in the morning. I walked up Passeig de Gràcia, and turned right on the first street that wasn't stuffed with Mossos vans. The smouldering remnants of smaller garbage fires met me as I wandered through those first few blocks away from the demonstration. Further along I ran into the occasional police blockade, but by the time I had reached Passeig de Sant Joan, where it meets Diagonal, there were few traces of the strike at all. Children were playing in the little parkettes that line the pedestrian thoroughfare in the middle of Sant Joan while their parents looked on. Dogs chased after each other on the grass under the trees. 

The only reminder that Barcelona had taken on the feel of a war zone today was the sound of the helicopters, still buzzing overhead. 

Roaming the streets of Barcelona: The 29M general strike as it happens

Waking up this morning it occurred to me that, rather than spend the day on the ground at various 29M actions across the city and writing about them (possibly days) later, it would be more interesting to take to the streets with netbook and wireless usb in hand -- documenting the strike day as it unfolds in Barcelona. 

Consider this my own little version of Leopold Bloom's long day's wander through Dublin.  I can't promise sirens, or a cyclops, but I can promise Iaioflautas and more than a few tense stand-off's between armour clad Mossos and protesters, ideally remaining non-violent whenever they occur. 

So check in throughout the day to find out what's going on as I wander about town, from strike action to strike action. 


10.34am: Awake after more cans of Estrella than initially planned last night. A quick morning coffee on the terrace -- It's extremely quiet outside. Taking a glance across to the flats that surround my own and everyone seems to be home. There is a school a few streets above, further up into the hills, which appears to be open. 

11.01am: The Guardian has a live blog providing brief updates from the strike across the country. No, I'm not going to link to it, because why would you want timely updates from a well respected, highly professional daily newspaper when you can get sporadic updates from some nutjob with a blog? On second thought, it does provide a wealth of information covering what's happening in the rest of the country, so have a look. So far they are reporting 58 arrests at various strike actions across the country . Most have been peaceful, but there has been some violence. One particular photo of a man who's had his face bloodied, apparently by the police. It is worth noting that tomorrow, 30th March, Prime Minister Rajoy of the Partido Popular will announce a budget that's expected to bring the most severe cuts yet in austerity Europe. 

12.25pm: Finally ready to leave the flat and venture down into the action. Transport in the city is down to a skeleton crew to make sure the public can still get to where they need to be, but it will take longer than normal. I'll be walking down into the barrio of Gracia first, as it's nearest to where I live and there are several actions planned there this afternoon. 

1.33pm: I left the flat and walked along Pi i Margall toward Gracia. At Carrer de Providencia I turned right, heading for Carrer Verdi. Most of the shops are shut, particularly the small, independently owned businesses. The major banks are open, and a few seem to be paying the price for it. At the corner of Providencia and Rabassa, a La Caixa outlet has "29M" and " Vaga General" spray painted in large black letters across its glass door and windows. Along the narrow streets of Gracia, the same slogans can be found sprayed on the asphalt, using a stencil template. There are posters and leaflets advertising the strike plastered on buildings all over the barrio. I arrived too late to Placa de Villas to see the assembly that had gathered there. A few stragglers remained, banging on pots and pans and blowing little whistles. 

1.41pm: A woman still mulling about the Placa informed me that a crowd was gathering at the top of Passeig de Gracia where it intersects with Avignuda Diagonal. This is where I am now, watching the crowd gathering around the obelisk that sits dead in the centre of the intersection. They have their pots and pans as well. Catalan flags are waving. And literally as I type this, 5 or 6 Mossos police vans have driven directly into the crowd on the street, breaking them up. Helicopters are hovering overhead. More later. As they say in Britain, it's all kicking off. 

2.02pm: Chaos in the streets, and fire on Rossellon . I've mentioned before that the Mossos don't fuck about, and today is no exception. Twenty or so of their midnight blue vans are constantly swarming in and around the crowds on the streets. Small battalions of the vans will suddenly stop, open their doors, and armed police stream out, launching into the crowd and striking indiscriminately at the nearest body. The people run for safety when each door opens and the Mossos rush out. I am on Rambla de Catalunya now, close to Carrer de Rossellon where a fire has broken out. Dark smoke is billowing out of a building no one can get very close to, as the police have blocked off access. Five more Mossos vans have just driven past behind me, heading south on the Rambla.

2.28pm: The fire, it turns out, was caused by a pile of garbage that had been thrown into the middle of the street and set alight. From a distance it first seemed to be coming from a building. It seems to have gone quiet around here. The Mossos vans are still driving in an erratic manner around Passeig de Gracia and Rambla de Catalunya, but their sirens have been turned off, for now. Even with a sort of calm returning to the ground, the hum of the helicopters strafing by above the city streets is constant.

4:23pm: The city wide free wi-fi administered by the local government has gone down.  I cannot say whether this has been done on purpose, with the intention of disrupting communication between activists on the streets, or if something unrelated is causing the problem. The last hour has been relatively quiet, but Passeig de Gracia now belongs to the people. Cars are being diverted from entering the famous street. People are walking freely up and down the lanes. A large statue has been placed on the lane that usually takes traffic north toward Av. Diagonal. The largest demonstration of the day begins at 6pm, when mass crowds are expected to gather at Placa de Catalunya, Barcelona's central square. To add to my own troubles, my netbook has died suddenly, and I am now forced to send updates via mobile phone. Expect typos.

5:24pm: At either end of El Corte Ingles department store the Mossos have barricaded the doors and are standing watch. A group of protesters have gathered at both doors, loudly chanting in disapproval as shoppers either enter or exit the store. The doors are flanked on either side by police vans, and steel railings keep the shoppers separated from the strikers. Occasionally a loud bang, either an explosive or something heavy toppling over, will ring out nearby. The crowds are swelling as 6pm approaches. Union members have started to arrive, making their labour association visible, they are wearing neon yellow vests.

 6:06pm: Last update before the march, more than likely. Once it begins, judging by the growing crowd, texting updates will prove a little difficult. People are descending upon Placa de Catalunya in an endless stream. Flags, from the Catalan national to that of Greece, are waving high in the air. Horns are being sounded throughout the crowd. A thick column of protesters are preparing to move up along Passeig de Gracia. The numbers keep increasing. This has all the makings of an epic manifestation. 

Guiri Like Me

I am not, nor shall I likely ever be, an obvious tourist. When I arrive in a new city for the first time, I don't come well prepared with an arsenal of maps, water bottles, velcroed utility pouches, wallet chains or multi-zippered back packs. There's never been a pair of overly pocketed shorts in my travel bag. In reality I come horrifically under prepared, usually with only the names of a few areas of town that sound enticing banging about in my head, and an excessive amount of curiosity. Getting lost in a new city can prove dangerous, but it's also usually how you wind up with a true feel for the place.

Not having to frequently dive into the confines of a stuffed to bursting bag to fetch out a ridiculously large map in the middle of an area like Las Ramblas in Barcelona leaves you looking, and feeling, a bit like you belong. It also increases the odds of avoiding the attention of pickpockets and muggers, but then so does not stumbling about in the faintly lit narrow streets of Raval in a drunken stupor while singing away in a cockney accent. 

This adherence to getting about incognito means I've yet to be the victim of petty theft after ten months in my new home, which is something even the most entrenched expat usually experiences at least once; a sort of right of passage. However, it's not completely problem free. Presenting the façade of being a local in a city with two common languages, neither of which you're any bloody good at speaking, can leave you looking like a fool when a true local falls for the ruse and speaks to you in rapid fire Catalan, or Castellano, exposing you for the guiri you are. 

Guiri is a local word to describe a tourist, primarily of British or German origin, though now it could be applied to myriad other European or North American sun seekers across Spain, not to mention the growing throngs of Japanese visitors as well. You won't find it in a standard dictionary. I hadn't heard the word until eight months in, and when I finally did it came from the mouth of another guiri, discussing the sort of jobs expats usually fall into in Spain; our guiri jobs. The word became common as a way for locals to poke a bit of fun at tourists without them knowing. As more and more expats became permanent residents in the city, they caught on to what it meant, and now use it themselves, often accompanied with a wry little grin. 

For the most part, the long term guiris are in on the joke. 

The jobs we take, the guiri jobs, tend to fall into the mind numbing, soul crushing realm of customer service. We make calls or take calls for companies taking advantage of the low cost of doing business in Barcelona. They range in degrees of horror, but they are all generally awful jobs. We are the punching bags for multi-nationals. We work them because most of us arrive without really knowing much Spanish, beyond the crucial "una cerveza, por favor." These jobs afford us the chance to work and live in a city we quickly fall in love with, and to do so in our native tongue, be it English, German, Dutch or Italian. 

This sort of work, though, is a bit like making a deal with the devil. 

We make the deal as it's the easiest way to stay, and start living in the city like a local, rather than sampling it as a tourist, but it also makes the process of learning Spanish more difficult, particularly for native English speakers. It becomes an ordeal to put off after speaking solely in your native tongue for eight hours a day, to go home and diligently work on improving your fluency in Spanish, or Catalan. You can suddenly find yourself not really learning at all, stuck in a rut, repeating the same words in the same situations. 

You stall out, or you remove the need to learn altogether. 

Barcelona truly is a cosmopolitan city. People from all over the world now call it home. There is a thriving British expat community here. English and Irish pubs are littered throughout Barcelona's many barrios. The temptation to immerse yourself in this familiar, comfortable world, with a language you already understand, and customs that you've trafficked in for years, is palpable. The more exotic, authentic world, the real Barcelona, falls back into the distance, and many expats don't notice because they're still having a damned fantastic time. 

So far, I've avoided that particular trap. Early on I managed to meet a group of true locals, great people who happily invited me into their world. They keep me immersed in the language, the culture, the life. When I arrived in Barcelona I had planned to learn Catalan first; it was this group of new friends, all Catalans, who suggested tackling Spanish beforehand. For my part, I do what I can to help them improve their English, though most of them have a lengthy head start. I have taught them quite a lot of creative slang, though.


Attempting to learn a new language through immersion in the country, the culture and the community is a longer road to take. The rewards are less immediate, the frustrations constant. The truth is, you have to accept the reality that you will feel like an idiot more often than you won't, at least initially. After a series of mild embarrassments, the occasional breakthrough will occur; a moment of triumph. This tougher journey still seems the best for a full on adult with so much bad wiring in the skull, so much junk information clogging up the memory.


It is the difference between learning to speak, and learning to communicate.


Still, I can't help but think that all this could have been avoided; that it could be easier for the guiri's who want to make a life in Spain, or elsewhere. When I was in school, Spanish, along with German, finally popped up as an option for study midway through secondary school. French, the second official language in Canada, is mandatory when students are eight years old, but becomes a course one can drop by the time they are fifteen; many kids in English Canada do just that. The chance to learn other languages comes too late. As toddlers, when our minds are like sponges, hungry for knowledge, we will devour another language as eagerly as we would a slice of chocolate cake. For good or ill, we live in a world far smaller than it was just 30 years ago, yet we haven't really caught on to the idea that we should be learning to communicate with strangers half a world away at the same time as we do strangers around the corner.


As the months have passed here, I've become friends with quite a few guiri's as well. Most have made some attempt to learn Spanish, and some have added Catalan. Their knowledge of these languages vary; some have been here a few years and are nearly fluent, some have been here for a decade and are just getting by. The ease with which they adapt to the language is random, though English natives generally have a rougher time of it than their French, Italian, and German counterparts. Still, I have met more than a spattering of expats who've fallen into the trap of not bothering, or giving up.


In mid May, I was out with my wife and two friends visiting from London for the weekend to catch a Barça match at Camp Nou. We found ourselves in a little expat bar on Sant Joan just below Carrer Aragó, near where we were living at the time. A fairly intoxicated local fellow chose to strike up a very friendly conversation with me using a rapid fire mixture of Castellano and his native Catalan. At the time I understood very little of either, so the conversation amounted to me repeatedly saying "Lo siento, hablo poco español." A younger couple from Ireland were sitting near enough to catch the mildly absurd conversation. It gave them a good chuckle. Later into the night when the bar closed, I had the chance to speak with them while we all had a last cigarette before moving on. The man was younger than myself, but had been here for over ten years. He freely admitted that he understood the affable drunk less than I did, revealing that even after such a long time here, he didn't know much more than a few basics, and at this point, probably never would.


The other side of the coin is that, whatever struggles these lifer guiri's have in their attempts to learn the language, their children reap the benefits. A couple I know, the husband from England, the wife from France, have a young son who has spent his short life living in Barcelona. At barely six years old, he already speaks fluent English, French, Catalan and Spanish, and he is learning Mandarin, basically because he can. His father joked to me that, whatever happens, he knows his son will always be able to find work at the airport. As far as I'm concerned, the kid is a genius, and is likely to take over the world. I'm just glad I've made friends with our future potential leader.


Perhaps he'll give me a job as the cleaner someday.

Mossoflautas!

When the police can't afford to beat you, they join you 

This past Friday some 50 members of the Catalan “Mossos d’Esquadra” regional police force marched into Barcelona’s largest police station at Plaça de Espanya to stage a sit in. Over the last eighteen months the Mossos have felt the pinch of a 5 percent cut in their wages, as the Generalitat de Catalunya marches along the austerity path in lock step with the rest of Spain. They entered with placards, and blew tiny plastic “flautas” in unison. One Mosso was quoted warning that “If they won’t negotiate, we’ll fight”. Still, by all reports it was a generally peaceful affair.

The problem is, the last time I saw 50 Mossos in the same place, they were beating peaceful 15M protestors bloody with truncheons:

That was 27^th May 2011, when under the guise of cleaning the grounds before the weekend's Champions League celebrations, the Mossos escorted city cleaning crews into the 15M encampment at Plaça de Catalunya, Barcelona’s central square. While they told the 200 or so Indignats camping there that they would be allowed back in, the cleaning crews began tearing down and removing the tents and other makeshift areas the protestors had constructed. Thousands of supporters descended on the square in a show of solidarity. It wasn’t long before the skull cracking began. 

Plainly speaking, when it comes to stifling dissent, the Mossos don’t fuck about.  

On 15^th June 2011, the Mossos fired rubber bullets on crowds seeking to block politicians from entering the Catalan Parliament situated in Barcelona’s Parc de la Ciutadella. Reports surfaced after the event that the Mossos employed the use of "Agent Provocateurs" during the march; a theatrical, subversive tactic used by police across the globe to turn peaceful protests into chaotic riots, effectively contaminating the public's view of a movement in an effort to turn the dissenter into a common enemy -- a shady villain to be feared and loathed rather than listened to.  

The Mossos cast an imposing shadow at these protests. Clad from head to toe in black riot fatigues, thick kevlar covering their torsos, their faces obscured not only by the visors on their helmets, but by police issue balaclavas. This is the strange paradox of the riot police and the protestor; only one side ever comes prepared for a fight, and the public is made to believe those in heavy armour are the brave ones. You start to wonder who needs protecting from who? 

On 19th June 2011, when the Indignats had once again converged on the Catalan Parliament buildings, I took a place along the barricade that separated the Mossos from the Indignats, standing across from one officer for about 30 minutes; his mouth and nose hidden under the black cloth of his Mossos mask. I could only see his eyes, permanently fixed on me. He stood completely at the ready, waiting for me to jump over the barricade. I half wondered if he was hoping I would.

Yet now, after months spent introducing their truncheons to the skulls of those calling out unfettered greed, and the strangle of austerity measures forced on the many to pay for damage wrought by the few, the opressors have become the protestors.

There is a rich irony in the Mossos being made victims of the same measures imposed by the elites they are made to serve, often toward violent and repressive ends, and embracing the spirit of dissent as a result. Feeling the sting of these same sharp cuts to their livelihoods that the Indignats have laboured under for years should be a lesson to them, and moreover, to police officers everywhere.

While the uniform, the badge, and the billy club may provide the illusion of power, ultimately the police remain members of the same under-classes they are frequently ordered to pummel into submission. To the elites they are a private army to be used for their protection, but ultimately, like the rest of us, they are expected to foot the bill for their folly. There is no justification for meeting peaceful protest with violent thuggery. “Just following orders” does not cut it.

For these 50 or so Mossos, and inevitably for police in every city where the people are rising up against the austerity disease, the question is simple. The next time you are ordered to crack the skull of a Perroflauta refusing to forfeit their right to be outraged, or to pepper spray a row of kneeling students at a university, will you remember that these same people whose orders you are “just following” can, and probably will, turn on you at any time?

D'Hondt Let Me Down

Ever get the feeling you’re being followed?

I do, at this very moment. I have come to believe that the right wing is stalking me, hunting me down as if I were the last Javan Rhinoceros, eager to mount my head on its wall. It’s either that, or I’m a curse for progressive thinkers and revolutionaries. You’ll forgive me if I prefer to think I’m being chased.

When I left Toronto times were grim. The city was a few months in to what's best described as the end result of former Provincial Premier Mike Harris’ final “fuck you” to the city he so loathed. The Harris “Mega City” amalgamation of Toronto proper with its surrounding suburbs delivered the city into the hands of a mayor who hates cities, progressives, art, culture, even bicycles. Mayor Rob Ford was the Harris regime's inevitable parting gift to the downtown core. If you listened closely, you could almost hear Harris crying out “from hells heart, I stab at thee!”

Similarly, though no less baffling, shortly after I left the country the federal Tories led by Stephen Harper, finally fooled enough Canadians, or lulled enough to sleep, to win the majority government they had craved for so long. No longer confined by the restraints of a minority parliament, and with no need to pay lip service to the idea of bipartisan co-operation, Harper and his cabal could drive through any legislation it liked. These were dark days for my city, my country, and my home. While these weren’t the reasons I left, they certainly worked to reaffirm the decision to go off and explore the world around me. Now, just seven months later, that same black cloud, the darkness on the edge of town, has tracked me down in Spain.

The national elections on the 20^th of November delivered Spain into the hands of the Partido Popular, a party formed in the burning embers of the old Franco regime when it fell in the mid seventies. For some here in Barcelona, it brings back sinister memories. A Catalan friend of mine, angry over the results and no doubt fearful of what’s to come, sent a message stating “La oscuridad se cierne sobre nuestro pueblo.”

The darkness looms over our people.

The results, while disappointing for many, come as no surprise. Sit down for a chat in a café, or a bar with nearly anyone you meet here to discuss the nation’s political parties and you will learn one thing very quickly: They are two sides of the same coin, ultimately controlled by Santander, the largest bank in the Eurozone. In essence, there is no choice at all.

The outgoing and thoroughly embarrassed PSOE had long ago shown that they were progressive and socialist only so long as it was convenient to be. When the pressure was applied from “Merkozy”, Zapatero quickly played the obedient dog. What is coming from New Prime Minister Rajoy and his party is simply more of the same crippling austerity measures applied by Zapatero in order to appease the creditors, to appease Chancellor Merkel, and to appease President Sarkozy. The people of Spain have been living under and fighting these efforts to sell them into financial slavery for some time now. Swapping out one set of thieves and opressors for another doesn’t mean much to them.

Far from a victory for conservative ideals, these election results stand as a punishment of the former bosses for abandoning their own ideals and turning their backs on the people in the face of relentless pressure from Chancellor Merkel. There were more nullified votes, blanked votes, and outright abstentions than there were actual votes cast for Rajoy and the Partido Popular. More people in this country feel that there is no one they can trust to represent them. They no longer place faith in the democratic process because it no longer belongs to them. It has been taken over by the financiers, the corporatists, and the neutered politicians who serve them.

When asked to choose between the person who wants to punch you in the stomach and the person who wants to kick you in the face, the vast majority of us would opt for neither. The people of Spain were being asked to vote for austerity, or more austerity. Many made the only choice they could. They said no.

It was a strange day here in Barcelona -- election day. The streets were quiet. The tourists were there of course, they always are. They walked up and down Passeig de Gracia as they do every single day of the year. No sense of what was at stake. To them this was not a day of any particular importance, just another lovely day in sunny Spain.

The locals though, the vibrant and rare lifeblood of this city, the ones that make it hum, were taking sides in a conflict of ideologies. Those who believe in the system, the ones that feel it’s working just fine, went to the polls and cast their ballot for more austerity, more crippling service cuts –- more of the same. On the other side of the field stood those who see themselves as prisoners, and the election as nothing more than a changing of the guards. The jailers faces and the names on their placards may have changed, but their plans and schemes all come from the same cold and sinister warden.


Those who refused to vote made a hard choice. They will not give consent to forced financial servitude. They have opted to show those in charge that if you abandon your ideals, and your promise to the public, forcing the people to pay the price for your corruption and that of the money men who hold the purse strings, the people will take you to task, any way they can. This was the harsh lesson the inevitable losers learned on election day, and it is the lesson the default winners should take to heart. Sooner rather than later.

On Sunday, 20th November 2011, millions of Spanish citizens made it clear that they will not be complicit in the methodical dismantling of their democracy. If the politicians don't have the courage, or the conviction to stand up for the people, they are more than capable of making their time on the throne extremely uncomfortable -- and very brief.