WE MARCH TO CITY HALL
Shortly after we reached the BART station, a large contingent joined us, coming from the opposite direction, marching down 7th Street from the west. I wondered where they'd been and who they were.
These people turned out to be our "lost" contingent - the unit I'd seen disappear behind police lines and into the SSA domain. Many were injured. One fellow had two large welts on his back and one on his chest. Several had been hit as many as four or five times. One person showed me a round piece of wood, about as thick as a broomstick, and over an inch long - the wooden bullets the police had been firing.
Someone told me they'd been fired upon
repeatedly, but there wasn't a lot of time to share experiences, and
it wasn't until later that I heard more about what had gone on and
learned how extensive the shootings and the injuries were.
Despite the ordeal, they arrived at the BART station, not as battered survivors straggling in, two or three at a time, but with their unit still intact, banners flying. Nobody was hysterical. Nobody was crying. These people had been beaten up - not beaten down.
While paramedics and other medical personnel attended the most seriously wounded, someone showed up with a huge sack of bagels. Cupcakes were also distributed. Food is often donated at demonstrations, and I think the thoughtfulness of the donors means as much as the food itself. It was tremendously welcome.
It's hard to estimate the number of protesters at the port that morning. That's partly because we were at five different gates, and also because people were constantly arriving and leaving. I knew some who came early and stopped by to spend an hour walking in a picket line before departing to go to work. Others came much later. Seven hundred is the number commonly given, and that's probably as good a guess as any.
At this point there were over a hundred of us here in the plaza of the BART station. Even using bullhorns it was hard to hold a meeting with a group of this size. It was still in the forenoon, and there was the question of what we should do now. Though a lot of people had gone home, there were many who wanted to continue the protest in some way or other.
It was decided to first take a few minutes for people to sit down with their affinity groups and talk things over. Most groups consisted of anywhere from five to twenty five persons. Some had colorful names, such as Global Intifada. So the group sessions were carried out, and then a general discussion was held.
Two proposals were put forward: One was to go back to the docks to picket the next shift which would go on duty at 1 p.m. The other proposal was to march downtown to City Hall. "We need to complain to the Oakland City Council about how we were treated!" said one person.
Some were skeptical of trying to
talk to City Hall, but others were strongly for it. So we held a vote
on where to go, "City Hall or the docks?" The vote seemed
pretty evenly split. Then someone asked how many would go along with
the majority, whichever the way the vote went. And most held up their
hands for that. Our discussion continued for some time.
In retrospect, I'm awed when I realize what I witnessed there - a gathering of people who'd just returned from spending several hours in "enemy" territory where many had come under fire and suffered painful injuries, calmly sitting down to discuss and vote on what to do next.
Eventually, the proposal to march downtown seemed to be carrying the majority. "How far is it?" someone asked. A map was consulted. "About two miles." We voted to go downtown.
So we set out, walking up 7th Street, on the sidewalk, rather quietly at first. Then a few people began moving into the street. Soon we were all in the street, before long taking over a full traffic lane, chanting our slogans in a spirited way. Eight or ten motorcycle police appeared out of nowhere and followed alongside us, but, they didn't interfere, and when we came to intersections they went ahead and stopped traffic for us.
As we neared the downtown area we were chanting loudly, every step of the way. We had no drums or musical instruments, just bullhorns and our own voices. At one point a fellow sang a song that I guessed came from the IWW songbook. Then we took up chanting again:
"See democracy - this is what it looks like!"
We got responsive honks and peace signs from passing drivers. Some pedestrians waved and cheered, making the peace sign. As we passed one particular grocery store, the customers came streaming out, cheering and waving.
Then, on 9th Street, as we were about to cross Washington Street, heading for Broadway, the motorcycle police, who minutes before had been helpfully stopping traffic at intersections, suddenly cut in front of us and blocked our way. They evidently didn't want us marching on Broadway.
Using their batons they shoved us back. I was on the left side of the street, where four cops barred our way. But suddenly we looked to the right of us, and there was our demonstration, streaming through the police line and up the street towards Broadway.
We quickly reformed our ranks, marching as a square. Having broken through the police line raised our morale tremendously and we immediately began chanting much louder than before:
"Whose street?" - "Our street!"
Then back to
"See democracy - this is what it looks like!"
Meanwhile, the motorcycle police took their defeat gracefully, or appeared to at least, and resumed their job of halting traffic at intersections as we passed.
There were many chants. One went something like, "No money to feed the poor? - you spent it on the war!" I really wondered when we would run out of voice, but we never seemed to.
Half a dozen bicyclists fanned out ahead of us, circling back and forth, scouting out the street for a block or so ahead of us, like cavalry for an infantry unit.
Finally, after marching up and down the streets of the downtown area, we arrived at the Federal Building, where in the middle of Clay Street we paraded in a circle, chanting loudly. The young woman leading the chants with a bullhorn seemed like an old pro, singing the phrases out, while we sang them back.
This went on for maybe an hour, with the police securing both ends of the block to prevent traffic from entering. Eventually the media showed up. I saw channels 2, 5, 7 and 14. One of the persons I saw being interviewed was Scott Bohning, an environmental engineer who'd been hit nine times by wooden bullets, including in the nose. He took his bandage off for the camera.
There seemed to be more injured people than I'd realized. Even at this point I was still only beginning to comprehend the extent of what had happened to my companions in the SSA zone.
Eventually, around noon, we ended our rally at the Federal Building, and marched out, down Clay Street, up 11th, up Broadway again, and this time went to the civic center plaza where we marched across the wet grass to end our rally in front of City Hall.
The object of this final rally was
to talk to the city council about the bad treatment we'd received from
the Oakland Police Department. But I wondered if the council would
listen to us. Finally a well-dressed woman took the bullhorn and
introduced herself as Councilwoman Jane Brunner. She spoke and told
us she was going to call for a public hearing.
The fact that Councilwoman Brunner had chosen to speak with us was reassuring, and it appeared that our complaints would be heard. Actually, if I had thought about it, I would've remembered that the Oakland City Council had already taken a stand on the war; it was among the 150 or so across the country which had passed antiwar resolutions. Several of the council members had also led a large antiwar march of some ten thousand people through the streets of Oakland just two days earlier. That was an indication, though certainly not a guarantee, of how the council members might respond to this morning's events. You always wonder who's still going to be with you once the shooting starts.
As our rally wound up, some news items were announced: The number of our people arrested that morning was thirty one. It was also reported that several longshoremen had been caught in police fire. The public hearing which Jane Brunner intended to request would be in two weeks, but there'd also be a council meeting the next evening. We could it attend and speak in an open forum.
Meanwhile, we had an itinerary of other projects and we'd continue to work on them. Our rally ended with - "Till we meet again next week, this time in San Ramon to shut down Chevron Toxico."