It's the Little Things That Kill, Part 2A Story by Patrick M Arthur
Part One originally written for and published via The Truth Pursuit
Read Part One Here
What is it about Peace that makes the violent so angry? Is there something so threatening about People just sitting in a park that the militarized wing of police forces in this country need to bring the full force of their wrath to drag away the working class heroes? Given what has happened in recent days, does this mean that the Occupy movement has kinked some kind of central nerve?
There was no ‘mood’ to speak of that tense night in Raleigh, just crazed oxygen combusting through the brains of three interconnected minds. Our energy was then re-channeled into the fearless hearts of a million peaceful warriors under attack. We were watching the live feed from Occupy Atlanta, hoping to learn something of the fate of Charles’ cousin Nick, an Iraq War veteran, and Shaun’s friends who were down in ‘Troy Davis’ Park. No smoking was allowed in the room, so there was a constant stream out onto the balcony.
We watched the pleas of many, wondering how in America could barricades be going up all around those poor b******s on screen? A single veteran, in full fatigues and clutching Old Glory, was having himself tied to an old Oak tree as police moved in. The stream cut in and out while the scene devolved into pure animalistic brutality.
Save for a single local video from the streets of Oakland, CA, there was zero national press on the story. Reports of ABC7 and others turning off their cameras as police moved in churned the bile in my gut. The cowards had traded their special responsibility for corporate money a long time ago, but the stunning realization of this fact is still burns when seen firsthand.
The tiny screen on my netbook was filled with browser tabs. Each one locked onto a twitter feed from one of the dozen or so cities threatened or raided by police that night. The scattered news we were getting looked something like this:
The worst of it was from the left coast, where veteran Scott Olsen was struck in the head with a canister of tear gas. He was then taken to a local hospital in critical condition. Scott survived the attack, but the brain damage he suffered may forever rob him of the capacity to speak. Mr. Olsen volunteered to go to war for this nation, survived it (twice) and then came back to have his life threatened by the actual extremist thugs.
Eventually, Shaun, Charles and myself had to pull away from the screen and return to the Occupy site to relay the information to others. It was a cold night in the South. The group huddled together and spoke in somber tones about what this all meant, but no one really knew. This is what shock and awe looks like up close.
The next morning, I got up off the chilled concrete sidewalk, handed off my donated blanket and went back to the room to recharge. Drying off after a hot shower " feeling a little guilty thinking of those back at the site " my naked body was still drenched. Soaked with salted saline falling from my eyes, I was in a fetal ball on the floor. It all just hit me.
During the previous night, America was akin to a war zone and nobody who didn’t inform themselves remained oblivious; sleeping in warm beds, driving their cars, buying ever-more crap at the televisions’ subliminal suggestion. Do they know how close they are to being next? I guess as long as they keep their mouths shut and their rights in some old forgotten drawer, the illusion of Freedom can continue for most of the public, for a while.
A few hours later I came back with some breakfast in hand for the others just waking up.
“We have more important things going on,” someone said. Out of nowhere, State police had suddenly made their presence known. There were as many black-shirts on scene as there were occupiers. A helicopter circled overhead and a small media crew was interviewing Will, who I’d nicknamed Smiley. From the first time we locked eyes, he was the most jovial being at camp, but not then. No one knew what was going on. Many were worried.
“What do we do?,” he asked. “We keep on keepin’ on,” I said and picked up an old tambourine. Handing it to someone with a bit more rhythm, everyone instinctually began to sing and chant:
“WE ARE THE NINETY " NINE PER CENT / AND SO ARE YOU!”
“THE PO-LICE ARE THE NINETY " NINE PER CENT!”
“BANKS GOT BAILED OUT / WE GOT SOLD OUT!”
The cops left as mysteriously as they had arrived, though still circled the block throughout the morning. Best guess on-site was that they were hedging after what happened the night before, making sure the dangerous and vile demonstrators on the sidewalk didn’t try and overthrow the benevolent Government that day.
Everything has changed, or maybe, more accurately, everything is coming into the light. The motives of the one percent haven’t changed, but their tactics are moving from subversive to brutal. They are relying on their purchased media to keep it all quiet, but the People are finding a way for their voice to be heard. The world is connected now in ways it has never been before and that is the advantage the 99% have today. A week ago, the story was ‘why are you here?’ Now, it is ‘why are you being gassed, beaten and dragged into jail?’
As I write this, from a crowded Greyhound bound for Atlanta, word has come through that Raleigh has been raided. Shaun tells me another dozen have been arrested. Charles just sent word that Nick was arrested down in Georgia and I need to seek him out.
So yeah, someone’s getting worried. Worried, perhaps, that the longer the Occupy movement continues, the more the Truth will be exposed. The truth that whether or not you understand or agree with the occupiers, they are risking everything for the benefit of all of us, changing the world by just sitting down and existing as one united force.
All those taken away will all be back, in larger numbers than before. The movement is not breaking the laws of man, it is breaking the laws of physics: every vile action from the Oppressors is being met with an evengreater and opposite reaction from the People of Peace. That, Mr. President, is change we can actually believe in.
© 2011 Patrick M Arthur
Added on November 9, 2011
Last Updated on November 9, 2011
Patrick M Arthur
New York, NY
AboutPatrick M Arthur is a writer and activist living in the NYC area. He is dedicated to improving Human rights, relations and destiny through discussion and embrace of all the things that make us unique.. more..