Family ReunionPosted: January 1, 2012
Móstoles, January 1
Never mind all the stories about spirits and kindness. This year, Christmas was whispered to become a marathon orgy. It started on the 21st of December 2011 and was supposed to go on until the End of Time, scheduled in December 2012.
Unfortunately, we got there late.
It was the evening of the 24th. We were expected in the countryside in the outskirts of the outskirts of Madrid. We left everything to the last minute, and when we finally lifted our bags to go to the metro, we saw how the shutters of the station slowly closed in our face.
So there we were. All people were safe and warm at home, the shops had closed, even the Chinese. We were left with a pack of dry lentils, one egg, a bottle of cheap wine, a bottle of even cheaper sangria, and no cork screw.
“What do we do now?”
Our only luck was that the bottle of sangria had a screw tap. And because I’m a romantic soul, for me there was but one option. “Let’s go to Puerta del Sol. We’ll get drunk out on the streets and have ourselves arrested. Given the situation it’s the only decent way to celebrate Christmas Eve.”
I was a little bit disappointed when the Spirit of Christmas came to save the day. But in the end it was probably better that he did. The three of us ended up listening to hard core Christmas music and playing cards until eight in the morning.
On Boxing Day we finally managed to arrive here in Móstoles. It turned out that the rumours going around on Facebook about this being a kind of End of the World Mega Party, were slightly exaggerated. We were four people. But it was only the beginning.
This is the country garden of comrade Geraldo, at fifteen minutes walking from the closest metrostation. When his grandfather worked this piece of land, the towns of Móstoles, Alcorcón, Fuenlabrada and Getafe were still small communities over the horizon. Now they are the vanguard of Madrid. At night you can see how the lights of the metropolis are slowly advancing from all sides. It won’t be long before this piece of country side will be turned into a park surrounded by vacant appartment blocks.
During the week, from all corners of the country and the continent, the veterans of the March on Brussels arrived, one after another. We started celebrating New Year’s Eve a week early, and we just kept on going. “Do you remember?…” someone would say, and there came the stories about the march. The triumphs and the disasters. The good, the bad and the ugly.
There was the legendary ‘Chocolate man’ for example, who served us hot chocolate every morning during our last days in Euskadi and our first days in France. There was the couple from Barcelona who took heartfelt care of us on various occasions. And there was the family from Murcia who joined us for a few days just before our arrival in Paris (mom, dad, daughter of about 17 and son of about 9). It was one of the many times when our march was subject to internal struggle and chaos. Comrade Lodovico didn’t believe that a family would ever want to be associated with us lunatics, and he had a very hard time explaining them the true situation without discouraging them to participate.
They stayed, against all odds. And one way or another they pulled the group together and turned into the spirit of the march. We must have left them a good impression after all, because yesterday just before the new year, all four of them showed up.
Then there were the stories about the week we spent in Revolutionary HQ in Brussels. I haven’t even told you a fraction of what happened there. Most things I heard for the first time. Like the day a man came into the kitchen, and climbed onto one of the tables, and stripped. He spread his arms and announced that he was the incarnation of god on earth. When someone tried to cross his divine path, the scene turned into a full scale riot.
The third floor assassination attempt was another of those stories, probably drug related. Someone had apparently been bottled on the back of the head and left there to bleed. He was only found because of the trail of bloody foot steps that the perpetrator left in the corridor.
Everyone could enter Revolutionary HQ, and indeed, everyone did. Cases of plundering and robbery went on all week. On one of the last days someone really ‘wanted’ must have looked for refuge inside the building. All of a sudden police cars arrived from all directions and a helicopter came hovering over the roof. This scene I remember. They came in, they caught the man and took him away. In ten minutes everything was back to normal. If I had disposed of a camera crew, I could have made an action movie about the week in Brussels.
Aside from telling stories, we play Risk. We didn’t have the game at hand, so we made it. A stack of cards, five dices and multi-coloured poker chips is all you need to play. I drew the map on coffee table. Comrade Perro shows a photo of the game of Catan which they made in the squat in Paris.
As revolutionaries, we are slipping, I have to admit it. While we are sitting here, playing Risk on the fifth day of New Year’s Eve, other comrades have arrived in Madrid and engaged in actions. “¡Hostia!” says Geraldo when the news comes in on his phone. “Police is charging at the Cabalgata indignada. There’s a photo of comrade Smiling Sparrow being clubbed in the head. ¡Es una pasada, chabales!”
We are shocked. Geraldo puts down his phone, and picks up the dice. “So, the Hulk is going to attack North Africa from Brazil…”
On the other side of the table I drew a map of ‘Risk Iberia’. But as a result of local nationalist sensitivities, it caused more conflict around the table than on it…
The last day of the year was amazing. Comrades Cristo, Getafe, Kanario, Carmencita, Sebastian, Smiling Sparrow and many others arrived, both from the Spanish and the French branch of the march. With a few exceptions we were all there, the best of the march on Brussels. When darkness fell we turned into one big tribe dancing around the fire. ‘If only for this,’ I think, ‘the march has become a success.’
By now the stories had started to focus on what happened after the march. Some people went to the protests during the G20 meeting in Nice, or helped to organise the March to Athens. Others have formed their ‘Revolutionary A-Team’, gave it the name of ‘Proyecto Nomada’, and returned to Paris to take part in Occupy La Défense. I heard about it, I’ve seen images of indignados building a cardboard camp only to have it destroyed by police over and over again. I’ve also seen images of the spectacular dome they built, but hearing the first hand accounts of what happened, standing around the fire, is definitely better than anything you can find out through the web.
On the radio the clock of Puerta del Sol starts to strike. Two thousand twelve has arrived. Soon each of us will leave in different directions. To Rome, to Barcelona, to Bayonne, to Berlin, or back to Brussels. But tonight we’re allvhere, and we celebrate. In a certain sense we are one big family. And at some point on the paths of the revolution, we will meet again.