The ACTivist Volume 16, Number 1

It was mid-afternoon when I got the message. Matthew Behrens' voice quaked happily from the little white machine. Ottawa, bus trip, WAR Department, renovation - the words floated past my ears with little. RENOVATION! What does he mean by renovation? I picked up a pen, hit the rewind button and sat down at the edge of the bed.

I glanced quickly at my notes and dialed Matthew’s number. I had read about his actions in Toronto, but we had never met. He provided details of the planned fiasco. It was a renovation demonstration at the WAR Department (a.k.a. Dept. of National Defence). Members of Homes NOT Bombs and other peace groups planned to build a civil society on the McKenzie Street Bridge in front of the WAR Department the day after Remembrance Day. There were two seats left on the Toronto bus. Was I interested in photographing the event? You bet!

The choice of the WAR Department building seemed most appropriate, considering that Ottawa’s homeless regularly sleep just across the street from it - under the McKenzie Street Bridge. The people who work in this building managed to spend $10 billion of our hard-earned taxes this year. They spent $482.5 million on the bombing of Kosovo alone. How is it that the Canadian government has no trouble finding money to blow-up houses, but we can't seem to find the money to build them for the homeless? The PR (public relations) language from politicians and the media would have us believe that it’s an unbelievable burden a national disaster. The federal government is able to grant funds for national disasters due to an act of God, but not due to the results of neglect.

November 11th. The day of the bus trip. It was my first demo outside of the Toronto area. A brisk walk to the TTC, and I was on my way! The awkward bulge of my lumpy backpack drew little attention. I shifted my weight as the train came to an abrupt stop. The pack was determined to throw me to the floor, but I resisted peacefully, of course!

Just as I became comfortable with my extra load, I reached my destination - Donlands Station. I reached into my pockets and fiddled with some change while I worked my way up to street level. All was quiet. The blinding sun was a welcome source of heat. Seeking the group, my eyes were met by a cigarette smoking woman who introduced herself as Susan. I can’t explain how, but I knew she was a career activist. She smiled at me like an old friend.

"You here for the bus to Ottawa?", I said.
"Yes, she croaked mildly, and you are?"
"Chris Davenport. I’m with The Activist."

I set down my pack and pulled out a cloth bag, which contained the latest issue. She didn’t notice. She was busy scanning the back of a frayed envelope for my name. The smoke of her cigarette trailed around her head forming a lose hook. She interrupted the stream, pausing for a quick drag, then returned to the envelope.

"Ah. Here you are," she said in a warm raspy tone. She put a line through my name and the transaction was complete. I handed her a copy of The ACTivist.

Susan returned to her cigarette as I surveyed the area. A giggling woman arrived and joined in the conversation. She shared a quick embrace with Susan, and they quickly unfolded into a five-alarm game of catch-up. The woman reminisced about jail stories as Susan nodded.

Five meters away, two men were engrossed in a lively political discussion. I stepped closer to tune in on the details. The speaker had long curly hair and gestured his message to a medium built man in a light sport coat. The sport-coat man interjected momentarily and returned to his listening. He had large eyes and disheveled hair. He made an attempt to recognize me, but the conversation pulled him away.

More last minute renovators joined the party just as the bus arrived. I stashed my bag in the luggage hatch and made a dash for the warmth inside. The interior of the bus resembled the cabin of a small modern jet. Plush reclining seats, and televisions. Half of the seats were already filled with people of all ages, but most were under twenty-five. Some were already sleeping, others reading, but most were engrossed in conversation, or the remains of their breakfast.

Most of the window seats were already taken so I was forced to choose a partner. I did not recognize anyone. I decided to simply extend the cliché from where I stood.

"Is this seat taken?", I said.
"No. Help yourself."

A woman in her early twenties occupied the window seat. She had short auburn hair and freckles. She wore the classic uniform of the student activist - T-shirt, army fatigues, and black boots. She gazed out the window in between glances at a large textbook. It was obvious that she could not harness her focus. An influx of distractions squeezed by as I stored my coat in the overhead compartment. She returned to the book, but quickly abandoned it as I sat down.

A quick head-count and the bus meandered out into the street. Over the P.A., someone began rattling on about something in a Fisher-Price voice. No one understood a word that the voice said. The noise and confusion of passengers drowned it out. The auburn-haired woman explained the identity of the voice while someone handed out itinerary sheets for the following day’s action.

The sheet contained a schedule of events and extensive information on non-violent action. What to expect, how to behave, what to do if you are ARRESTED. The word jumped off the page as I visualized a clash with police. There was a call for quiet as the Fisher-Price voice continued. No one appeared to be paying attention, and I made no attempt to filter out the noise of the bus.

I spent the next two hours in a great conversation with the auburn-haired woman. At the end of the day, we still did not know each other’s names. Funny as it may seem it never came up. The following day I learned that her name was Angela. We spoke of the violence in society, the military, feminism, racism, gender roles and kids’ toys. Your basic bus trip, stranger to stranger small talk. Right?

One of our stops included an old-style general store next to a solar-powered gift shop. Several renovators made the journey for food and beverage. Several hours still awaited us in our journey. I made my way off the bus and approached the sport-coat man, who was busy studying the solar-powered shop. We introduced ourselves and had a quick discussion about the "decline of journalism".

I became more apprehensive about being ARRESTED, as we drove through downtown Ottawa. The Fisher-Price voice stood up and pointed out the WAR Department building. A block later and we were at our destination. "How strategic!" I thought to myself.

After some quick stretching and the gathering of our scattered belongings, the renovators walked single-file into their new headquarters. This consisted of an open auditorium adjacent to a soup kitchen for the poor. Inside, the renovators had already set up shop. A stage area became the luggage rack. Immediately to its left volunteers had set up a small vegetarian buffet. The tables were still vacant, but a wonderful aroma in the air indicated this soon would be remedied.

The strong voice from my little white answering machine welcomed the renovators to their new home. It was easy to recognize Matthew - he looked exactly like his newspaper photo. Within thirty minutes, over one hundred people had begun working in small groups, introducing each other, and planning strategies for the following day. Their excitement flowed across the room like an energy field. All these strangers were getting along like old friends. "Wonderful", I thought.

I decided to depart for the evening. I had already planned a meeting with an Ottawa friend. It was getting late.

The next day came quickly. My friend Bob decided to join me, and we made the quick bus ride into town. I gave him a quick lesson in the use of my video camera.

When we arrived at campaign headquarters, the police were already waiting outside with two motorcycles and three cruisers. "Is this the escort?" I joked to Bob.

Chaos greeted us inside. Some of the crew were still eating breakfast. Most were busy putting the finishing touches on their costumes and placards. Several people had slogans pinned to their backs. Carefully, I studied one slogan which proclaimed the Japanese proverb that "the frog does not drink up the pond in which it lives." Under the circumstances I did not understand its context , but this did not diminish its profound impact on me.

I moved aside as several pieces of furniture walked by. Apparently these people were serious about the "renovation" part of this action. Everyone was smiling. I had returned to the great energy field.

Matthew made some quick announcements about a police escort and their instructions to the group. They intended to allow our demonstration, but wanted it to remain on their terms. The renovators had planned to close the McKenzie Street Bridge for eight hours! This of course, was unacceptable to the police. The plan was reviewed. The group would close down the bridge - they had their consensus.

The march began without hesitation. Couches and chairs, a fridge and stove, and a large wooden console television made its way down a wheelchair ramp. The group was unusually serene except for the sound of a djembe beating out a steady rhythm. They seemed to be saving their energy for the actual renovation in front of the WAR Department.

At the bridge’s intersection, the renovators split the parade into two marches on either side of the street. The police, not expecting this, made a futile attempt to intercept them halfway across the bridge. The renovators hardly noticed them and continued on to the WAR Department.

The parade ended with the placement of four barricades, one for each direction of traffic at both ends of the bridge. The entourage of renovators setup their props in front of the WAR Department. The fridge, stove, TV, and couches made a quick apartment. Buckets of dirt were poured out to make the base of a community garden for an odd arrangement of plants. The other side of the bridge was converted into a day-care centre and a general area for the demonstrators.

The sidewalks were already lined with several mini-vans and cars. Some were unmarked police vehicles, but most displayed markings of the major media outlets - radio, TV, newspapers.

The arrival of the renovators automatically triggered the welcoming committee. Microphones blossomed like early June flowers, looking for opinions to pollinate them. Riot police in storm trooper apparel formed a line between the renovators and the entrance to the WAR Department. All of them carried batons and pepper spray. One of the police carried a broom handle in place of a baton. A weapon of choice perhaps? He would be one to keep an eye on! The renovators broke into song - the energy field expanded.

Several renovators began scribbling messages in chalk on the cold grey building. "Homes NOT Bombs!", "No to Star Wars", "1% solution", and "Tired of writing letters". The chalk scribblers continued for over an hour - the police did not seem concerned.

Some of the media became impatient. It was obvious that they wished to leave, but they were waiting for a confrontation - a big seller in the mass media world.

They soon had their confrontation. About twelve renovators stood directly in front of the storm troopers, demanding that they be allowed to pass. They read aloud from prepared statements, citing United Nations conventions. The renovators declared themselves "citizen inspectors". The storm troopers ignored them, standing their ground.

The press hovered over them like children at a schoolyard brawl. In this scrum, the media out-numbered the protestors by about two to one. The air went silent. Microphones dangled, tapes rolled, a cough was heard here and there. But nothing happened.

When it became apparent that the renovators were not going to leave, the troopers began provoking them with their batons. "Stay back," they yelled, as they prodded them in the chest. The renovators held their ground. "Stay back," they yelled again while leaning forward. The media stepped back, and again nothing happened.

Some of the radio media gave blow by blow accounts over their cell phones as they paced the sidewalk in front of the building. Matthew performed the same function with a megaphone out on the street.

The prodding stopped and the renovators sat down. The tensions of the riot police were now subdued. These were peaceful protestors.

Before long, a group of wildly dressed senior women began to sing before a small circle of media and protestors. Known as the "Raging Grannies", this national syndicate makes appearances at social actions all over Canada. Using well known tunes, they sing for social justice.

After three hours of peaceful protest, full of singing and dancing, the police made their move. A paddy wagon pulled up to the curb. A police dog was brought in to close off the other end of the sidewalk. A police spokesman made his bilingual address from a tattered megaphone. We were to disperse immediately, or we would be arrested.

About twenty minutes later we were warned again. Several of the renovators formed a circle in front of the storm troopers while the TV cameras rolled. They locked arms and began singing "We Shall Overcome"

On the signal of an invisible command, the storm troopers moved forward as a single unit, chanting, "hooaagh..hooaagh". The renovators continued in song - determined to hold their ground.

The storm troopers were forced to come down to the level of the renovators. One kneeled and made an announcement to the nearest person in the circle. The renovator nodded and was handcuffed with a plastic tie. Another storm trooper assisted the first in carrying away the renovator.

The process continued similarly for forty-five minutes until fifty-four renovators were arrested. Several paddy wagons came in shifts to haul the protestors away. One received a flat tire while mounting the curb and was rushed away before the media noticed.

After the protestors ran out of "willing" arrestees, the bridge was quickly cleared and cleaned by a public works crew. A civil society maintained for three hours was abandoned and destroyed in less than two minutes.

Back at the renovators’ headquarters, a tired but glowing band of people discussed the action. Their feelings were unanimous - the action was a great success. The energy field soothed and protected.

The next several hours were spent in a waiting game. A muscular woman paced with a cell phone keeping us updated on the status of those arrested. The police had decided to press charges of "public mischief". These may result in summary convictions.

At about seven o’clock that evening, the remaining fifty people decided to prepare a bus back to Toronto. Those arrested would probably not be released until two or three in the morning. The bus ride home was long and tiring. The protestors discussed other actions going on in the world. This was not their first action, nor would it be their last.