Friday, August 02, 2013
Grandchildren's Walk: Our Action at ERM
Environmental Resources Management was a good target, and the secret was well-guarded by the walk organizers. On Wednesday evening they gave a detailed briefing on the action, it's general location, and the form it would take (some locking themselves together in the corporate offices while others distracted the guard, still others outside raising a ruckus). I was intrigued, but Geeta and I decided to stick with our original intention to complete the walk. The traveling community, erecting our tent city each evening in a new site, was really growing on me. But I would miss the fellow walkers, some now friends, who were leaving us for the training and action.
The
action at ERM was scheduled for noon. The day of the action, a few
walkers left at dawn to be able to join it, 13.5 miles distant.
Others took rides to the metro with the same intention. The rest of
us waited for the day walkers, who had been instructed to join us at
nine. About a half dozen did so, with others swelling our ranks as we
neared the capital. One cheery young woman calmly emerged from the
forested banks of the Potomac, a lovely woodsprite affirming our
purpose. As was the case all along the walk, I had probing talks
with other walkers, this day with a man who had just joined the
movement last fall. When we reached Georgetown, he unfurled his
banner, proclaiming the Great Turning and the end of Fossil Folly. On
it was written the names of his grandchildren, one just adopted the
week before after a long struggle (thus “Hope” was crossed out,
replaced by Bryan). More and more of the folks I meet in these
actions have never done any kind of activism before. Many spoke of
their awakening, and the tempo is accelerating.
Though
the company was surprised they were the target, the police arrived
swiftly, and it was all over in fifteen minutes or so. They arrived
with wire-cutters, paddy wagons, and plenty of plastic handcuffs. As
the 54 who were arrested left in their custody, there were huge
smiles, cuffed hands raised overhead, and frequent applause. This
was a celebration, though at least some would need to return for a
court date in mid-August, which could be a problem for my new friend
Deborah from Seattle, at her first action. But as my brother-in-law
the police dispatcher says, “That's a first-world problem.” This
is not Syria, nor Russia, nor Turkey.
We
arrived at the site of the civil disobedience around three pm, well
after it ended. The police returned from lunch to face a second wave
of protesters. We did not see them as the enemy, and when I saw the
video footage recording the warning from a company employee that he
would call the police if the intruders didn't leave, I heard one
woman say “Thank you.” Unlike previous 350.org civil disobedience actions, this one was not scripted,
since the target remained secret. But each side still knew what to
expect from the other. This is a dance we do in our democracy, and
without the police doing their part, it would be incomplete, and our
message would be lost. As the commander said to Geeta (he looked like
a glamorous politician, an impeccable diplomat), “This is not
Syria. We are here to protect your right of grievance to your
government .” We are blessed to be able to dance our protest and
sing out our grievances.
One
thing that disturbed me about the action was the rowdy chanting of
slogans, both on the street and inside the building. I would prefer
dignified silence, punctuated by eloquent signage. Even a clever
chant sounds adolescent when amplified by a crowd. I have been part
of three acts of civil disobedience, and though we sang, and even
chanted some, there was a more dignified tone. The chanting at ERM
did not reach the strident pitch which so put me off during the
Vietnam War protests, but the more I do activist work, the more I
yearn for dignity throughout. That was what I experienced at the
Interfaith Moral Action on Climate, IMAC, in January. I am
sure the training was thorough, undertaken by some of the same
trainers at the same church, St Stephens Episcopal, where we trained
for the August 2011 Keystone action at the White House. But I miss
the silent witness, the meditative prayer, inviting everyone on all
sides to plumb their depths.
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