Presente in Prague

November 2000 Issue

Somewhere in the archives of Prague there is a collection of slogans that appeared on city walls, in shop windows, and on the metro during the Velvet Revolution. These slogans ("The truncheon--the beating heart of the Communist Party," "When you can't solve problems in your offices, we must solve them on the street," "The battle cry for today: Spread good humor") depict the spirit of resistance that culminated in the fall of Communist rule in the former Czechoslovakia a decade ago.

After the protests this September against the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund (IMF), the archives will have to make room for many more slogans.

"If you think you are too small to make a difference, try sleeping with a mosquito," reads one on the wall at the information center of the Initiative Against Economic Globalization.

"If we all woke up together, maybe the nightmare would be over!" says another.

"If you come only to help me, you can go back home. . . . But if you consider my struggle as part of your struggle for survival, then maybe we can work together," states a third.

Next to the slogans is a length of string with small watercolor paintings hanging by clothespins. One shows a woman offering a turnip; another shows people holding hands.

A large map of Prague is spread out near the center of the room, with a posting board nearby that will overflow with paper as the week wears on. On this particular day, the board advertised gas masks for 400 crowns (about $10) and alerted folks to a "blue Skoda car" in front of Roxy Park. "They are coppers!" the notice warns. Political literature, written in many different languages, is scattered on tables.

The Initiative Against Economic Globalization, the Czech umbrella group that did major organizing for the demonstrations against the IMF/World Bank, chose for its information center a space on Parizska Street, a nicely ironic location dotted with luxury shops, including a Christian Dior boutique that boarded up its windows before the major protests on September 26.

Several times during the week, neofascist groups enter the center. They are also in town to protest the meetings. Their presence in the city prompts a response. On September 23, an anti-fascist demonstration gathers at Namesti Miru, "Peace Park." Protesters with their faces covered in black hold up a banner that says, in three languages, "Resistance is boundless: anti-fascist, anti-capitalist, revolutionary."

"If we want to fight fascism, we must fight capitalism in the state," says a man through a bullhorn. "They will not give up their powers and their fears without merciless trouble. The only possible solution: socialist revolution."

At around 2:00 p.m., the march begins with chants of "No! No! No pasaran!" ("They shall not pass!"). Cops slowly assemble around the square, and the march begins to move through the streets. Those in front pause at intersections, keeping police and press guessing before veering in one direction or another. Helicopters fly overhead, as they do during the entire week of the meetings. A boy who looks about eight years old stops licking his ice cream cone and watches the march move past, and as the group approaches a flower stand, a woman working there starts packing them away.

"Your flowers are safe," says a man with a British accent.

There are several police on guard outside a McDonald's, but none outside Dunkin' Donuts. A few smile at first when cameras start snapping photos of them, but quickly straighten their faces. The march pauses in front of the restaurant and people blow whistles. "Fuck McDonald's!" yells one man.

The march ends at Wenceslas Square around 4:30 p.m. A demonstrator slides a red and black flag into the hand of a statue. There are cheers and pictures, and parts of the crowd say "Awwww," when the wind blows down the flag.

"The important thing about it was that it was bigger than the fascist march," says Andrew Flood, an Irish trade union activist, who spoke that morning on a labor panel at the counter-summit. "They had a legal rally of ninety people on a hill outside of town, and we had four to five hundred people marching to the center."

"The police have been very sweet. As long as people leave in groups, everything should be OK," says a man standing across the street from another McDonald's with eight officers stationed outside. Later in the week that same restaurant made world news after protesters broke its windows.

On September 25, the convergence center near the Palmokova metro stop is the place to be for training. The center consists of several old warehouses and what appears to be an old train station. Police and media stand on a bridge overlooking the center but are discouraged from entering by a red and white barrier that a woman on guard duty raises and lowers to let people past.

Rampenplan, a Dutch cooking collective that was detained at the border before being allowed into the country, serves up a vegetarian meal of pasta, sauce, and bread. "Fifty crowns" (about $1.25), a sign says. "We really need that, but if you can't afford it, pay less. Take care, and have enough food anyway."

A dishwashing station is open for volunteers, and small groups of primarily twenty-somethings are sitting on the ground. One man is walking through the crowd handing out holograph stickers. Another fills up bottles with rice to use as noisemakers for Samba, an ad-hoc volunteer musical group whose colors of choice are silver and pink.

Over at the medical center, emergency kits are available. In the event of exposure to tear gas or pepper spray, the doctor instructs me to spit and blow my nose, then tilt my head to the side as I wash my eyes. She says a good way to remove chemicals from exposed skin is to pour canola oil then vodka on the affected area, and wipe it off with a rag.

In another building, Rampenplan is cooking, and people are making banners. A man and woman are painting cardboard flowers. A pink float shaped like a tank is sitting unattended. The float is reminiscent of the 1990 political action of Czech artist David Cerny, who went up to a T-34 Russian tank on display in Prague and painted it pink. The prank resulted in an official apology to Soviet authorities. Cerny said he wanted to turn "a weapon on show into something more human."

On the big day, September 26, I go to Namesti Miru again, where 15,000 demonstrators from more than forty countries are gathering.

A man stands at the top of the stairs leading from the metro, saying, "Welcome to Prague, stop the IMF" to each person. A deejay is set up next to a huge blue balloon that says "Balls to the IMF" in orange letters, while several hundred feet away sets of fake human legs, shoes to the sky, are planted in the ground around a huge yellow canvas that reads "WB and IMF Cause Poverty."

Hanna Nikkanen, a nineteen-year-old student from Helsinki, Finland, is part of a group that calls itself the "Radical Cheerleaders." "The media pictures this as a big terrorist event, so we decided to do something funny, to make it for the people. We're not out to destroy their city," she says. "Police get a lot less tense when they see someone like her here," she says, pointing to the young woman next to her in pigtails and a pink miniskirt.

Sharon, a twenty-three-year-old student from Dublin, laughs as members of her Irish collective approach with small protest signs that read "Careful now." She's come to Prague, she says, to demand debt cancellation for the Third World and to protest the concentration of power in the hands of multinationals.

"These multinationals can come in, have all the power to do whatever they want with no restrictions, and then pull out just as easily," Sharon says. "We're beginning to realize that this isn't the way to go and that we're going to suffer as everyone else."

Grazia Francescato, president of Federazione dei Verdi (the Italian Green Party) and the only female party leader in the Italian government, came in for the day because she "couldn't resist the appeal of being here."

"We are in Prague to say that we are not global consumers, we are global citizens, and we want a say in designing the future of mankind and of the Earth," Francescato says. "For the first time, there is a network of protesters who say the same thing in different languages, and it's very validating."

The march divides into three routes: pink, yellow, and blue. All routes lead to the Congress Center, the venue for the IMF/World Bank meetings. The goal is to block delegates from leaving the building.

Those on the pink route, ultimately the most successful one in approaching the Congress Center, parade with Samba in carnival-style. Yellow is somewhere in the middle, with direct action up in front by Ya Basta! (Enough!), an Italian activist group. The blue group will likely encounter the police first and is generally considered the route to take for those willing to risk arrest.

As the march begins, people stand on top of bus shelters, occasionally snapping pictures for those who pass their cameras up to them. People cheer as the Ya Basta! group walks past, dressed in white painters' jumpsuits. They are carrying inner tubes and colored balloons that say, "Liquidate IMF and World Bank." When they use their balloons to try and push past police lines, they pop them one at a time, causing onlookers to chuckle.

At the yellow march, I make my way to the front to take pictures. Many police officers are in attendance. Three stand on top of a tank. One of them wears a gas mask, one is filming the action with a video camera. A naked man with dollar bills sticking out of his ears and "Stop New Feudalism" written on his back walks to the front of the line to talk with Ya Basta! members.

Each time the demonstrators make a push forward, the police open fire with short bursts of pepper spray. I hear people around me begin to cough, and then I start to cough myself. It feels like plaster dust is suddenly filling my lungs. I douse the blue handkerchief I have around my neck with water, put it up to my face, and try not to inhale the spray.

In between rushes, some demonstrators squirt police with water pistols. Others sing "La, la, la, la, la, quack, quack, quack quack," while making beak motions with their hands. At one point, someone plays "We Shall Overcome" on a trumpet. Later, a man with a Free Mumia T-shirt walks up to the police line, holding out the crucifix around his neck.

"We come in peace," he says. "Please don't hit us. We are not your enemy. We come in peace and for justice."

Garret Küpker, a twenty-seven-year-old student of philosophy from Hamburg, Germany, who identifies himself as a pacifist, decided to go to the blue march as a journalist for the Independent Media Center. Demonstrators at the front of this route focused on direct physical confrontation with police and property damage. These were the actions most commonly reported by the mainstream media.

"It's a pity. I really would have liked to have joined the Italians or the Samba group," says Küpker. "Nobody is talking about the Samba group that much. The blue group gets the main attention, from every side--from the media, and from the activists, too." He criticizes the "destructive power" of violence.

Christian Kumar, a twenty-nine-year-old activist from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, ended up in an affinity group with Hungarians. "Everyone wore pink," he says. "It was important that it was fun, and that we create a very carnival atmosphere. We wanted to show that we're here to oppose the IMF and World Bank, but we're also here to enjoy ourselves. It's a celebration, being here. And that was important to get across."

Late in the afternoon, demonstrators are encouraged to show up at the opera house to prevent delegates from viewing a scheduled performance that evening. Along with 100 other people, I sit down to block one of the rear entrances. After a half hour or so, a woman announces that the delegates have canceled their entertainment plans for the evening. The next night, protesters gather in Old Town Square, the center of Prague, to celebrate the decision by the IMF and the World Bank to call off the rest of the meetings. A row of twenty-five police officers stands nearby. The jubilant mood is tempered by reports trickling in of police brutality toward jailed protesters.

A man gets up on someone's shoulders and starts a roll call of demonstrators, asking those in attendance to yell "Presente!" when their country is called. When he finishes his lengthy but incomplete listing of countries, he asks, "Now, can I hear from the world?" The crowd cheers.

Marco Gaspar is a twenty-one-year-old student from São Paulo, Brazil. This is his first trip overseas. "Perhaps the most important thing is what are we going to do after this demonstration, and after the next, and how we're going to organize ourselves," he says. "Ten years ago, there was nothing like this. There were lots of people on the whole that said, 'I don't agree with this kind of economy, this kind of organization of society,' but the organization was not there. Now we have all these people together saying 'No. Stop. Ya basta!' And this is different. This is something new."

Jodi Vander Molen is Membership Coordinator for The Progressive, a freelance writer, and an activist.