Letter from Inside the Black Bloc

Ed's Note: The following story was sent to us anonymously (Mary Black is a psuedonym) two days after a violent protester was killed in Genoa, Italy. While we may not share the author's opinion about Black Bloc tactics, it is a perspective that hasn't been fully covered, even in the progressive media, and as such deserves publication.

For a well articulated counter-argument, see Kenny Bruno's "After Carlo Giuliani, Peaceful Protests Must Continue," originally printed on CorpWatch.org.

And to sound off about violence at protests, or related issues, visit AlterNet's Black Bloc vs. Non-violence discussion forum (easy registration required).

I'm running as fast as my asthmatic lungs will allow in the midst of what can only be called a mob. My friend from back home and I hold hands so that we won't loose each other, but I'm holding him back a little. He's in much better shape than I am and he'd probably be out of range of the tear gas by now if it wasn't for me.

A phalanx of riot cops is getting closer and I let go of my friend's hand, so that at least one of us can get away. He darts ahead of me onto a side street. I'm small, and now I'm by myself, so I'm not attracting much attention from the cops. I raise my hands in the air to show that I'm giving in, and let the cops push me in the direction that they are pushing all of us -- conventional protester and black clad rioter alike -- down a blocked side street.

Probably there is no way out of this alley; it's a trap, but the tear gas is too thick at this point for me to resist. I'm fumbling for my gas mask, but I'm going where I'm being told to go. I'm aware that some folks I've been marching with are being picked out of the crowd and thrown to the ground. Folks are trying to pull people out of the hands of the cops. One guy gets yanked back from the police line and runs; he gets away, but the friend I came here with is tackled. The last time I see him that day he's face down on the cement, two big undercover cops straddling him. Like most of the folks around me, I run.

We're retreating, but only as much as we have to. And in a few minutes we'll find our group again and advance back toward the area that the cops have declared off limits to all but a small group of extremely wealthy, extremely powerful, mostly white, mostly men.

If words like "advance" sound militaristic in tone, that's probably because I'm a part of a group that at least appears paramilitary. Our clothes are uniform issue and intentionally menacing: black bandanas, ragged black army surplus pants, black hooded sweatshirts (with optional red and black flag or slogan-covered patches) and shiny black boots (or for the vegans in the crowd, battered black converse).

I'm part of a loosely affiliated international group of individuals known as the Black Bloc. We don't have a party platform, and you don't have to sign anything or go to any meetings to join us. We show up at all kinds of demonstrations, from actions to free Mumia Abu Jamal, to protests against the sanctions in Iraq, and at just about every meeting of international financial and political organizations from the WTO to the G8. Although most anarchists would never wear black bandanas over their faces or break windows at McDonalds, almost all of us are anarchists.

Most folks I know who have used Black Bloc tactics have day jobs working for nonprofits. Some are school teachers, labor organizers or students. Some don't have full-time jobs, but instead spend most of their time working for change in their communities. They start urban garden projects and bike libraries; they cook food for Food Not Bombs and other groups. These are thinking and caring folks who, if they did not have radical political and social agendas, would be compared with nuns, monks, and others who live their lives in service.