"Palestinian Power in the Rockies and the Circus at City Hall"
by Alexander Cain in Scrapped Magazine (March 2024 Issue)
Note from A. Cain included at the request of the Editor: To be clear, this is not an objective piece of journalism. To tell you the truth, I don’t believe such a thing can truly exist in this field, except perhaps for subjects like gas prices or box office scores. I am not a war reporter, and this story is not necessarily about the war. Rather, it's about an outburst of rage from some Collinites in the early months of 2024, a year when the Republic reaches several forks in the road: Israel or Palestine? Trump or Biden? Nihilism or Revolution? The point is, I’m not a camera. I can only document most of what I see and some of what I feel. Do your own research on the issue, and I’m sure you’ll come to a simple conclusion.
THE NEW OBSESSION
Ah, what’s this up ahead? A strange scene on the steps of City Hall: a clot of fifteen or so people, shoving pamphlets and stickers into the hands of unsuspecting passerbyers. Some of them are holding signs, most of them with the same familiar phrases.
Standing on a brick wall, towering over the rest of the activists, is a person wearing a sleeveless leather jacket with enough pins on it to forge into a sword. They rustle slightly in the breeze as the person looks back and forth, surveying the walkway like a hawk as the regulars file on in. They have one arm at their side, and the other stuck up in the air, grasping a poster board with two contentious words printed on it…
Everyone who scans the headlines or watches cable news will know these words. They’ve been shouted through bullhorns, printed noisily on flyers, and spray-painted on buildings. They can be enough to get a gun drawn or receive a firm handshake. They can be pure poison or pure elixir…
These poor folks walking in now, holding stickers and flyers in their hands, expected a quiet, regular meeting of the City Council tonight. Ha! Don’t they know? There’s a movement happening. It’s been happening since last November. Marches in Old Town, graffiti on the Marine Corps building, flyers outside the Alley Cat…it’s all connected. And tonight, on February 2, a Tuesday, the movement takes a new, public direction. The movement reaches City Council.
And what is the movement exactly? Well, read the sign, man!
Free Palestine! it says. Palestine is the country’s latest obsession. It’s a big deal… something that has the politics junkies and regular folk alike riled up. It’s a very bewildering conflict indeed, although many of the people I talk to insist this is not a conflict, war, or dispute…this is a genocide.
These people on the sidewalk dressed in Kufiyas, holding Palestinian flags, are my first good look at the pro-Palestine movement in Fort Collins, and it’s been a long time since October 7. By now, I’m knee-deep in copies of The Coloradoan and The Reporter Herald, sometimes even The Rocky Mountain Collegian, keeping the headlines regarding Palestine, discarding the rest. Christ, I could have filled up my gas tank with all the money I’ve spent on newspapers lately.
I’ve been to a protest or two in Denver, and I discuss the conflict often. But for some reason, my path never crossed with the pro-Palestine movement until tonight. I had heard about them through the grapevine, and quickly began to follow their cause.
"Join us at the Ft. Collins City Council to demand an immediate ceasefire to the genocide in Gaza!" The most recent call to action online released by the Northern Colorado Liberation Coalition reads. "Hundreds of locally elected officials and dozens of cities around the country have passed resolutions showing solidarity with Palestine by declaring their support for a permanent ceasefire. Let’s get Fort Collins to join the growing list!"
A resolution? That’s it? $2.5 million of tax money is funneled from Fort Collins to Israel each year, according to the U.S. Campaign for Palestinian Rights, and the best the people can muster is a resolution? What kind of sway does this have over the country? Over Biden, Harris, and Netenyahu? What will this really change? What will this–
But it’s not about that, man! It’s about the ripple effect. That’s what everyone’s been telling me at least. The more cities lay the pressure on, they explain, the sooner Biden cuts off the war machine. It’s not a concept impossible to grasp, but I still have my doubts that this is enough.
“You’re not keeping that, are you?” the woman in front of me says to her companion as soon as they’re out of earshot of the demonstrators. She’s talking about the stickers they are both holding.
I stay in the lobby for a minute, getting a feel for everything in City Hall West. There’s a nervous air in the building, although mostly optimistic. This sort of resolution has been passed in other cities, why shouldn’t it here, in Fort Collins? There are nearly a hundred and fifty people from every imaginable political category left of liberalism here tonight, all united under one front: a Free Palestine.
Look at them! They can’t lose! They have all the momentum, and this chapter of the movement should be quick and painless. Of course, some red tape is expected. But ultimately, this could be over and done with by spring. Soon, Fort Collins will be cemented on the right side of history.
I find a seat near the front of the chambers, next to a woman wearing a hijab, who regards me wearily as I take out a notepad and start scribbling speedily. I don’t say anything or try to speak to anyone for now. Passing myself off as a legitimate reporter wouldn’t be right; it would only be a half truth. And passing myself off as an objective reporter could be an outright lie. But how can you report on this sort of surreal event in any traditional press sense?
The chatter amongst the crowd comes to a stir as the mayor and council enter the chambers and take their seats. The mayor, Jeni Ardnt, adjusts her glasses and leans into her microphone.
“Good evening Fort Collins, the time is now 6:01 p.m. and I call the regular meeting of the Fort Collins City Council to order.”
Whack! The mayor brings her gavel down. The meeting has begun. Suddenly, this whole new thing is set in motion, and the movement takes off. After tonight, everyone will know about the movement, everyone will know the message: From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.
When the mayor asks the audience to join her in the pledge, most of the room doesn’t stand. Those who do make sure to scoff loudly at those still seated. The insolence! In some circles, not standing for the flag is a crime worse than shoplifting or genocide. And the way they all sit there so smugly, signs in their laps, grinning like a bunch of jackasses. Disgraceful. The insolence!
I must admit, I myself was one of the insolent jackasses, comfortably seated in my chair, neither hand close to my heart. The truth is, it’s a humiliating time to be an American. That’s the difference between I and those standing…I have the decency to be ashamed.
When public comment begins, and people talk, no one is against the resolution. Ninety people speak in total, most of them declaring “Ceasefire Now” At the end of their speeches. They talk a lot about what exactly this resolution means. What’s the city supporting? Mainly, three things:
1) an immediate and permanent ceasefire in Gaza and the occupied West Bank 2) immediate, unhindered humanitarian aid into Gaza 3) release of all hostages and arbitrarily detained Palestinians
By the end of it all, it seems like this will be a short piece of town history. They already had council member Kelly Ohlson on their side. He said he didn’t have any “reluctance or fear” about passing the resolution, and hoped the council would consider it. Huzzah! This should be easy, right?
Right?
Standing on a brick wall, towering over the rest of the activists, is a person wearing a sleeveless leather jacket with enough pins on it to forge into a sword. They rustle slightly in the breeze as the person looks back and forth, surveying the walkway like a hawk as the regulars file on in. They have one arm at their side, and the other stuck up in the air, grasping a poster board with two contentious words printed on it…
Everyone who scans the headlines or watches cable news will know these words. They’ve been shouted through bullhorns, printed noisily on flyers, and spray-painted on buildings. They can be enough to get a gun drawn or receive a firm handshake. They can be pure poison or pure elixir…
These poor folks walking in now, holding stickers and flyers in their hands, expected a quiet, regular meeting of the City Council tonight. Ha! Don’t they know? There’s a movement happening. It’s been happening since last November. Marches in Old Town, graffiti on the Marine Corps building, flyers outside the Alley Cat…it’s all connected. And tonight, on February 2, a Tuesday, the movement takes a new, public direction. The movement reaches City Council.
And what is the movement exactly? Well, read the sign, man!
Free Palestine! it says. Palestine is the country’s latest obsession. It’s a big deal… something that has the politics junkies and regular folk alike riled up. It’s a very bewildering conflict indeed, although many of the people I talk to insist this is not a conflict, war, or dispute…this is a genocide.
These people on the sidewalk dressed in Kufiyas, holding Palestinian flags, are my first good look at the pro-Palestine movement in Fort Collins, and it’s been a long time since October 7. By now, I’m knee-deep in copies of The Coloradoan and The Reporter Herald, sometimes even The Rocky Mountain Collegian, keeping the headlines regarding Palestine, discarding the rest. Christ, I could have filled up my gas tank with all the money I’ve spent on newspapers lately.
I’ve been to a protest or two in Denver, and I discuss the conflict often. But for some reason, my path never crossed with the pro-Palestine movement until tonight. I had heard about them through the grapevine, and quickly began to follow their cause.
"Join us at the Ft. Collins City Council to demand an immediate ceasefire to the genocide in Gaza!" The most recent call to action online released by the Northern Colorado Liberation Coalition reads. "Hundreds of locally elected officials and dozens of cities around the country have passed resolutions showing solidarity with Palestine by declaring their support for a permanent ceasefire. Let’s get Fort Collins to join the growing list!"
A resolution? That’s it? $2.5 million of tax money is funneled from Fort Collins to Israel each year, according to the U.S. Campaign for Palestinian Rights, and the best the people can muster is a resolution? What kind of sway does this have over the country? Over Biden, Harris, and Netenyahu? What will this really change? What will this–
But it’s not about that, man! It’s about the ripple effect. That’s what everyone’s been telling me at least. The more cities lay the pressure on, they explain, the sooner Biden cuts off the war machine. It’s not a concept impossible to grasp, but I still have my doubts that this is enough.
“You’re not keeping that, are you?” the woman in front of me says to her companion as soon as they’re out of earshot of the demonstrators. She’s talking about the stickers they are both holding.
I stay in the lobby for a minute, getting a feel for everything in City Hall West. There’s a nervous air in the building, although mostly optimistic. This sort of resolution has been passed in other cities, why shouldn’t it here, in Fort Collins? There are nearly a hundred and fifty people from every imaginable political category left of liberalism here tonight, all united under one front: a Free Palestine.
Look at them! They can’t lose! They have all the momentum, and this chapter of the movement should be quick and painless. Of course, some red tape is expected. But ultimately, this could be over and done with by spring. Soon, Fort Collins will be cemented on the right side of history.
I find a seat near the front of the chambers, next to a woman wearing a hijab, who regards me wearily as I take out a notepad and start scribbling speedily. I don’t say anything or try to speak to anyone for now. Passing myself off as a legitimate reporter wouldn’t be right; it would only be a half truth. And passing myself off as an objective reporter could be an outright lie. But how can you report on this sort of surreal event in any traditional press sense?
The chatter amongst the crowd comes to a stir as the mayor and council enter the chambers and take their seats. The mayor, Jeni Ardnt, adjusts her glasses and leans into her microphone.
“Good evening Fort Collins, the time is now 6:01 p.m. and I call the regular meeting of the Fort Collins City Council to order.”
Whack! The mayor brings her gavel down. The meeting has begun. Suddenly, this whole new thing is set in motion, and the movement takes off. After tonight, everyone will know about the movement, everyone will know the message: From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.
When the mayor asks the audience to join her in the pledge, most of the room doesn’t stand. Those who do make sure to scoff loudly at those still seated. The insolence! In some circles, not standing for the flag is a crime worse than shoplifting or genocide. And the way they all sit there so smugly, signs in their laps, grinning like a bunch of jackasses. Disgraceful. The insolence!
I must admit, I myself was one of the insolent jackasses, comfortably seated in my chair, neither hand close to my heart. The truth is, it’s a humiliating time to be an American. That’s the difference between I and those standing…I have the decency to be ashamed.
When public comment begins, and people talk, no one is against the resolution. Ninety people speak in total, most of them declaring “Ceasefire Now” At the end of their speeches. They talk a lot about what exactly this resolution means. What’s the city supporting? Mainly, three things:
1) an immediate and permanent ceasefire in Gaza and the occupied West Bank 2) immediate, unhindered humanitarian aid into Gaza 3) release of all hostages and arbitrarily detained Palestinians
By the end of it all, it seems like this will be a short piece of town history. They already had council member Kelly Ohlson on their side. He said he didn’t have any “reluctance or fear” about passing the resolution, and hoped the council would consider it. Huzzah! This should be easy, right?
Right?
FROM THE BELLY OF THE BEAST
If you went to City Hall on the night of February 6, you may have been hoping for a speedy passing of the resolution. You’ve probably been told that good politicians will listen if you yell loud enough. Write enough letters, stage enough protests, vote the right way, and you can make the change you want to see. And so by the end of the night, you’re probably thinking: Why would anyone on the council disagree with the resolution? Why would you not want an end to the war? All signs point to the objective being accomplished.
But then, City Council doesn’t pass the resolution. In fact, they don’t even add it to the agenda. This may not be the first time you’ve been let down in a similar way. But it may be the first time it really sticks. You might start to think that this is not enough. But what is? A protest? Perhaps a picket sign and megaphone will bring more attention to the cause.
And it seems to. When you arrive in Old Town on a Saturday afternoon, the crowd is small. But it grows quickly, and soon, the surge of your warm bodies wraps its way around the corner, and the sound of your voices is carrying over the sea of idle traffic: “While you’re shopping bombs are dropping! “While you’re eating kids are bleeding!”
Signs bob and swerve over the crowd like shark fins, the megaphone booms loudly. Everything is going well.
But suddenly, there is a hostile sound. You can’t make out fully what’s being said, but there’s a lot of the word “fuck” being used. You step closer to see what’s going on, and you see that it’s a man standing in front of the crowd, in the middle of the sidewalk. He’s holding a chain leash in one hand, and at the end of the chains are four full-grown pitbulls.
“Fuck you!” he’s screaming, sticking his middle finger up. “Fuck Palestine!”
You look around at the others, wondering if anyone is going to stop, or if anyone is going to say something. They keep marching, so you do as well, even as the man gets closer, and you get a better look at him. His eyes are bloodshot and bulging from his skull, and his mouth twitches furiously as he talks: “Fuck you! Bunch of fucking faggots!”
He spits at you. Pure poison!
He’s not the last heckler either. People began emerging from stores and restaurants to yell and flip the bird to you. Some people are honking their cars and yelling out their windows at you.
“Fuck Hamas, Fuck Hamas, Fuck Hamas!” “Stop! Leave! Fuck you!” “Fuck Hamas! Fuck Hamas! Fuck Hamas!” “Fuck you, you’re all a bunch of cunts!”
But then, City Council doesn’t pass the resolution. In fact, they don’t even add it to the agenda. This may not be the first time you’ve been let down in a similar way. But it may be the first time it really sticks. You might start to think that this is not enough. But what is? A protest? Perhaps a picket sign and megaphone will bring more attention to the cause.
And it seems to. When you arrive in Old Town on a Saturday afternoon, the crowd is small. But it grows quickly, and soon, the surge of your warm bodies wraps its way around the corner, and the sound of your voices is carrying over the sea of idle traffic: “While you’re shopping bombs are dropping! “While you’re eating kids are bleeding!”
Signs bob and swerve over the crowd like shark fins, the megaphone booms loudly. Everything is going well.
But suddenly, there is a hostile sound. You can’t make out fully what’s being said, but there’s a lot of the word “fuck” being used. You step closer to see what’s going on, and you see that it’s a man standing in front of the crowd, in the middle of the sidewalk. He’s holding a chain leash in one hand, and at the end of the chains are four full-grown pitbulls.
“Fuck you!” he’s screaming, sticking his middle finger up. “Fuck Palestine!”
You look around at the others, wondering if anyone is going to stop, or if anyone is going to say something. They keep marching, so you do as well, even as the man gets closer, and you get a better look at him. His eyes are bloodshot and bulging from his skull, and his mouth twitches furiously as he talks: “Fuck you! Bunch of fucking faggots!”
He spits at you. Pure poison!
He’s not the last heckler either. People began emerging from stores and restaurants to yell and flip the bird to you. Some people are honking their cars and yelling out their windows at you.
“Fuck Hamas, Fuck Hamas, Fuck Hamas!” “Stop! Leave! Fuck you!” “Fuck Hamas! Fuck Hamas! Fuck Hamas!” “Fuck you, you’re all a bunch of cunts!”
YOU'RE NOT DOING ENOUGH
…it isn’t.
It wasn’t “the will of the council” according to Emily Francis, mayor pro-tem.
“The ‘will of the council’ doesn’t matter,” someone tells me before the next march. “It’s the will of the people that matters.”
This march is a global event…"Shut it Down for Rafah." There’s a march going on in just about every major city, and Fort Collins is no different. From the outside looking in, the movement appears to be gaining some real steam. But among the people I talk to today is a sense of hopelessness. No one seems as sure anymore that the council will pass this resolution. The marshals do, of course. But where would we be if they didn’t believe that what they were doing was significant, or at least right?
The march takes a new route today, snaking its way down College and past the City Drug store. Once again, hecklers intercept the marches on their route, shouting obscenities and tossing up middle fingers. As the crowd moves, I began to hear another heckler somewhere to the left. I push my way through the sea of disconnected arms and signs, looking to see some of the action. When I find myself standing near the edge of the road, I see that the heckler is a man in a trenchcoat, with a full gray beard and thick glasses. But he isn’t shouting the regular anti-Palestine bullshit…he seems to be on our side…
“This isn’t enough!” he shrieks at the crowd. “You’re not doing enough. This is not enough! This is never enough! We cannot just keep saying the same chants!” Most of the people walking past ignore him, but a couple slow down to listen to his impromptu sermon. “What are we even thinking of if we don’t even think of Aaron Bushnell? What are we even thinking of if we don’t think of Aaron Bushnell? What are we even thinking of if we don’t think from our hearts?”
The last few words trail off into sobs, and the man begins weeping noisily, his entire body shuddering. Soon, his sobs are overtaken by the sound of chanting: One! Two! Three! Four! It’s genocide, not a war. Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Israel is an apartheid state! The chanting continues, but a strange shadow has been cast over the whole march. I can tell a few of the people around me are thinking about what the bespeckled man had said. Was this enough? Would it ever be enough?
Later, I see the same man standing near Washington’s, watching the march from a distance with his hands in his pocket. I break off from the crowd and walk over to him, shaking his hand and introducing myself as a reporter. He tells me his name is Adam Hirschhorn, and to put that on the record. I tell him I will, and ask him about what happened in the square. I said he seemed pretty upset.
“Well, they’re just going through the motions!” he snaps at me. “This is the same thing they do every Saturday!” He pauses, and takes a breath. When he speaks again, his voice is less unstable. This time he is making sure that I hear him clearly. “And I knew…I knew that when they went to the city council, it wouldn’t do a damn thing. I’ve lived here since 1986, I know what the city is.”
I think I’m also starting to know what the city is, Hirshhorn.
It wasn’t “the will of the council” according to Emily Francis, mayor pro-tem.
“The ‘will of the council’ doesn’t matter,” someone tells me before the next march. “It’s the will of the people that matters.”
This march is a global event…"Shut it Down for Rafah." There’s a march going on in just about every major city, and Fort Collins is no different. From the outside looking in, the movement appears to be gaining some real steam. But among the people I talk to today is a sense of hopelessness. No one seems as sure anymore that the council will pass this resolution. The marshals do, of course. But where would we be if they didn’t believe that what they were doing was significant, or at least right?
The march takes a new route today, snaking its way down College and past the City Drug store. Once again, hecklers intercept the marches on their route, shouting obscenities and tossing up middle fingers. As the crowd moves, I began to hear another heckler somewhere to the left. I push my way through the sea of disconnected arms and signs, looking to see some of the action. When I find myself standing near the edge of the road, I see that the heckler is a man in a trenchcoat, with a full gray beard and thick glasses. But he isn’t shouting the regular anti-Palestine bullshit…he seems to be on our side…
“This isn’t enough!” he shrieks at the crowd. “You’re not doing enough. This is not enough! This is never enough! We cannot just keep saying the same chants!” Most of the people walking past ignore him, but a couple slow down to listen to his impromptu sermon. “What are we even thinking of if we don’t even think of Aaron Bushnell? What are we even thinking of if we don’t think of Aaron Bushnell? What are we even thinking of if we don’t think from our hearts?”
The last few words trail off into sobs, and the man begins weeping noisily, his entire body shuddering. Soon, his sobs are overtaken by the sound of chanting: One! Two! Three! Four! It’s genocide, not a war. Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Israel is an apartheid state! The chanting continues, but a strange shadow has been cast over the whole march. I can tell a few of the people around me are thinking about what the bespeckled man had said. Was this enough? Would it ever be enough?
Later, I see the same man standing near Washington’s, watching the march from a distance with his hands in his pocket. I break off from the crowd and walk over to him, shaking his hand and introducing myself as a reporter. He tells me his name is Adam Hirschhorn, and to put that on the record. I tell him I will, and ask him about what happened in the square. I said he seemed pretty upset.
“Well, they’re just going through the motions!” he snaps at me. “This is the same thing they do every Saturday!” He pauses, and takes a breath. When he speaks again, his voice is less unstable. This time he is making sure that I hear him clearly. “And I knew…I knew that when they went to the city council, it wouldn’t do a damn thing. I’ve lived here since 1986, I know what the city is.”
I think I’m also starting to know what the city is, Hirshhorn.
THE MOVEMENT FROM HOME
I was watching the broadcast at home when it got cut.
What Hirshhorn had said got to me, so I stayed home for the third council meeting. I figured I’d put it on in the background and listen to the speakers while I worked. Nothing was going to happen, what was the point of going? But I guess what Hirschhorn said also swayed some of the people at the top of the movement. Before anything could get too out of hand on TV, they cut the broadcast entirely, so it wasn’t easy to see what was happening. But before the broadcast was cut, those watching at home witnessed a sudden interruption to the meeting, shortly after the pledge. While the mayor is reminding everyone to follow the rules, you can hear someone offscreen yell to interrupt her.
“This meeting will not come to order!”
“Okay,” the mayor stammers. “That was out of order. I am instructing you that it was out of order.” She threatens that if this continues, she will have people removed from the building. In the final ten seconds of the on-the-record video, you can hear multiple people shouting in the chamber. But soon, the audio cuts, and so does the video. The council has called a recess.
What Hirshhorn had said got to me, so I stayed home for the third council meeting. I figured I’d put it on in the background and listen to the speakers while I worked. Nothing was going to happen, what was the point of going? But I guess what Hirschhorn said also swayed some of the people at the top of the movement. Before anything could get too out of hand on TV, they cut the broadcast entirely, so it wasn’t easy to see what was happening. But before the broadcast was cut, those watching at home witnessed a sudden interruption to the meeting, shortly after the pledge. While the mayor is reminding everyone to follow the rules, you can hear someone offscreen yell to interrupt her.
“This meeting will not come to order!”
“Okay,” the mayor stammers. “That was out of order. I am instructing you that it was out of order.” She threatens that if this continues, she will have people removed from the building. In the final ten seconds of the on-the-record video, you can hear multiple people shouting in the chamber. But soon, the audio cuts, and so does the video. The council has called a recess.
GORILLA GLUE AND THE CIRCUS AT CITY HALL
When I arrive at City Hall less than half an hour later, it’s the most chaotic scene yet. There are about ten or so security guards by the entrance, and even from outside, you can hear the chants: “Ceasefire Now! Ceasefire Now!” Through the windows, you can see the people in the chambers on their feet, yelling and pumping signs in the air. When I walk in, the mayor and council are not at their seats, but the people are still yelling at the empty chairs.
Also, on the North wall of the chamber, three women have used Gorilla glue to stick their hands on the crimson bricks in an act of protest. It will be many hours before they’re removed, although it won’t be long now before the council comes back out. The chanting has been going on for almost thirty minutes, and no one is leaving. This is the most major disruption in City Hall history, and someone needs to put a stop to it.
Soon, the mayor and her council come back out and take their seats. The City Manager announces that they will suspend meeting rules to address the disruption. Finally! the people are thinking. Finally, the bastards listen. But what the mayor does next shocks even some of the most pessimistic in the audience. She calls the meeting to an end, and announces the building is closed.
One second. There is a single second of silence in the chamber as everyone processes what was just said. Everyone is making sure they heard it right. After one second of peace in the chamber, the entire room bursts into shouts and boos. “Cowards!” they bellow at the mayor and council as they leave again.
“Co-o-o-wards!”
In front, people are standing at the railing, sticking both middle fingers up at council, declaring: “Fuck you! Fuck you! Cowards!”
“Everyone stay!” one woman yells. “Our taxes pay for this building, they can’t kick us out.”
But already, a security guard is putting her hand on my shoulder and guiding me out of the building. “I got it, I got it,” I tell her, walking towards the exit and adjusting my collar. As others walk out, they hold the signs high over their heads and continue chanting “Ceasefire now! Ceasefire now!”
“How many of my fucking tax dollars do you send to Israel every year?” someone shouts. “You’re all cowards!”
As I’m leaving, I see Hirshhorn loitering by the exit, watching everything unfold. I approach him and shake his hand, stating my disappointment that everything ends as soon as I get here. He asks me if I know anyone headed South. I tell him I don’t. I ask him what he thinks of all this, and he nods. “Step in the right direction.”
Agreed, Hirshhorn. A step in the right direction indeed. Action instead of words. If the bastards don’t listen, make them. City Council is running out of stalling time, as it has become clear that the voices of these people will be heard, one way or another.
“We’ll be back,” one man promises me. “Oh, we’ll be back.”
Also, on the North wall of the chamber, three women have used Gorilla glue to stick their hands on the crimson bricks in an act of protest. It will be many hours before they’re removed, although it won’t be long now before the council comes back out. The chanting has been going on for almost thirty minutes, and no one is leaving. This is the most major disruption in City Hall history, and someone needs to put a stop to it.
Soon, the mayor and her council come back out and take their seats. The City Manager announces that they will suspend meeting rules to address the disruption. Finally! the people are thinking. Finally, the bastards listen. But what the mayor does next shocks even some of the most pessimistic in the audience. She calls the meeting to an end, and announces the building is closed.
One second. There is a single second of silence in the chamber as everyone processes what was just said. Everyone is making sure they heard it right. After one second of peace in the chamber, the entire room bursts into shouts and boos. “Cowards!” they bellow at the mayor and council as they leave again.
“Co-o-o-wards!”
In front, people are standing at the railing, sticking both middle fingers up at council, declaring: “Fuck you! Fuck you! Cowards!”
“Everyone stay!” one woman yells. “Our taxes pay for this building, they can’t kick us out.”
But already, a security guard is putting her hand on my shoulder and guiding me out of the building. “I got it, I got it,” I tell her, walking towards the exit and adjusting my collar. As others walk out, they hold the signs high over their heads and continue chanting “Ceasefire now! Ceasefire now!”
“How many of my fucking tax dollars do you send to Israel every year?” someone shouts. “You’re all cowards!”
As I’m leaving, I see Hirshhorn loitering by the exit, watching everything unfold. I approach him and shake his hand, stating my disappointment that everything ends as soon as I get here. He asks me if I know anyone headed South. I tell him I don’t. I ask him what he thinks of all this, and he nods. “Step in the right direction.”
Agreed, Hirshhorn. A step in the right direction indeed. Action instead of words. If the bastards don’t listen, make them. City Council is running out of stalling time, as it has become clear that the voices of these people will be heard, one way or another.
“We’ll be back,” one man promises me. “Oh, we’ll be back.”