Notes From Across the Pond: The February 15, 2003 Protests in New York City

national | miscellaneous | news report Tuesday February 18, 2003 06:27 by Nick Abbie abbiehoffman at ziplip dot com

Notes From NYC, NY, USA: The February 15, 2003 Protests

“Mainstream White Guys for Peace,” “Bombing for Peace is like Fucking for Virginity,” and “The Asses of Evil” -a wonderful caricature of Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld’s heads drawn on the bodies of donkeys riding an ICBM- were among the thousands of signs I viewed while tromping through Manhattan’s march-banned streets on February 15, 2003. As soon as I emerged from the subway at 59th Street and Columbus Circle, I knew it was going to be one fantastic protest – bigger than anything I’d ever been involved in before. Swirling colors, playful banners, guerilla theater, homespun music and air than nearly crackled with the energy of thousands. Soon the “non-march” moved out heading up town toward who knows where. Somehow by heading north we were going to make it to 49th Street and 1st Avenue. We trusted in whoever was at the head of the parade to get us there. Along the sidewalk we marched past gawking tourists who stood in the safety of their hotel doorways pointing at the anarchist who just flashed them a peace sign. Some were even bold enough to snap a picture of his masked face. We paraded past children asking mommy what was going on. Past shopping-bag laden men and women shooting us confused and bemused looks.
About the time we passed by Trump’s high-brow plaza and scattered a flock of socialite tourists, I looked to the left and saw a sight for sore eyes, the red over black diagonal flag of anarcho-syndicalism (or to some, plain old anarchism). A fervent rallier was running down the middle of the street waving the flag exhorting us to end our orderly march and take to the streets. A few intrepid souls took the plunge, followed by more and more. Soon everyone was pouring into the streets. The chants began, “The Streets Belong to the People” and “Who’s Streets? Our Streets!” These became the battle cries for the rest of the day and to some degree they were 100% correct. We did hold the streets, a major victory against a city who denied our right to march. But, we were at the mercy of the city and its police who routed us further and further north. Still, we continued clogging the streets; moving around and past cars and vans stopped in the middle of the road, parked almost as if they were there to impede the march’s progress (hmmmmmm... how curious....). But we kept to the streets and we kept heading north, despite the frequent “requests” of cops to take to the impossibly clogged sidewalks and give up the streets we had rightfully won.
Up 2d Avenue we marched, moving along amidst signs, puppets, monks, dancers, chanters and all manner of assorted protesters. The cop at 60th assured us that we could cut across at 63d, at 63d they said just head up to 70th Street. Enough was enough. Last year at the anti-World Economic Forum protest they pulled the same shit. They expertly used tactics to break the crowd, disperse us, make us, if not more manageable, at least less powerful. They intimidated and cajoled; charged and pushed; penned us in; siphoned us out; told us where and when to move and eventually took back free zones that we had won with our feet. Not today we said. Some of us began to exhort follow marchers not to head north. We said turn around and march back, or simply pool at the intersection of 2d and 63d and force them to open the street for us. “Why” some asked. “We have no real destination.” “We’ll never make it to the rally on 49th.” “We already made a statement.” “We already control the streets.” Sure, we shut the motherfucker down. But now it was time to show that the streets really do belong to the people - every last one of them. Whichever street we choose at whatever time we choose. That it wasn’t some idle slogan. It was time to show that 10 cops and a couple of flimsy wood barricades could not stop thousands upon thousands.
We took a stand and exhorted others to do so as well, but many of our numbers filtered north into oblivion. Fuck, I began the day at 116th Street with the “Historians Against the War” contingent that assembled at the Columbia University campus and if I wanted to be up north, I could have stayed put. We continued to wait. And chant. And press toward the barricade. And finally, after an hour or so, the barricades gave way and a cheer went up. Had we won something? Or had they given us crumbs? However you scored it, it was a victory of sorts and we happily flooded onto 63d en route to 1st Avenue (to view a movie of the breaching of the barricade, see: http://home.nyc.rr.com/jaymzz/protest/ )
I don’t know how long we were bottled up on 63d, but it seemed like forever. By the time we turned the corner onto 1st it was after 2pm. Our hands were frozen. Our feet were numb. But we could now hear the sound system and actually see the big screen TV televising the rally near the United Nations. We had caught radio updates throughout the day whenever we moved near someone thoughtful enough to have become part of the “people’s sound-system.” We knew we had missed Susan Saranden, but none of us cared. We had seen other celebrities along the way. Who knew that GW would be in attendance? I figured with it being the weekend and all, he’d be home, home on the ranch or at Camp David, but I looked over at one point and who was there but Mr. Prezident himself. The commander-in-chief had taken an “I Love New York” -inscribed plastic bag and made it into “I Love War” tee-shirt. At least he gets points for honesty. I must admit, I was a little skeptical and even thought for a moment that it was an impersonator wearing a mask, but the fake plastic smile was just too authentic. It simply had to be him! While we knew we were missing speaker after speaker, we at least heard an update that from 49th Street to 72nd Street on 1st, 2d and 3d, we had brought the city to a standstill. But what about Angela Davis. All in my group had really wanted to see her speak, but we figured that we had to have missed her. She must have spoken earlier in the day. But as we made our way up 1st, there she was! We had actually caught Angela’s speech. Another minor victory for us!
We hung out on 1st for the rest of the protest. We saw some more small triumphs as intersections were “liberated” and barricades lifted. I watched as fellow marchers rejoiced and danced. I even saw one fellow protester walk up to a cop, who in a role reversal was actually the one penned in by barricades - separated by a metal fence from the mass of humanity in the street. “You guys have been great! Really great! I can’t say enough. I’m gonna write an editorial to the New York Times praising the police,” the man gushed. It made me sick. This guy probably trudged way up into the 60s as cops marched his ass further and further away from the rally itself. They lied to him along the way. They put up barricades in his way. They parked cars in the road to impede his progress – yes we all saw the nightsticks sticking out of the gym bag in the back!!! But because they didn’t crack his skull, he was eternally thankful. Well, I knew better. While I’d heard that the mounted “troops” were being brought in elsewhere, I hadn’t heard of any incidents yet – but we all knew somewhere on this day, someone was being thrown down to the pavement. Was being insulted. Was being intimidated or menaced by a horse or a riot-gear clad cop. Was having his or her head split open by a night-stick. This guy was in his 50s. He should have known better. Just because that particular cop wasn’t beating his ass at that particular moment, didn’t mean that cop or any other of NYC’s boys and girls in blue had been anointed “Movement” saints or had switched sides.
We got a call later. A friend in our affinity group heard that a friend of hers had been thrown into a paddy wagon for offenses unknown. We later heard later about police on the Avenue of the Americas, near Times Square who had roughed up a few young protesters and an older gentleman, and when chastised for it by the crowd, one of the cops snidely replied, “Welcome to New York." We heard about a man on 52nd and Lexington who had his head bashed in by a cop’s night-stick. We learned about horses used as weapons and cops brutalizing marchers at various spots throughout the city. While the New York Times might print a letter from that guy on 1st and 61st – he had it all wrong! I saw a more appropriate statement scrawled in marker on a police van on 63d. Across the driver’s side door in bold red was “Fuck the Pigs!” As a historian and purist, I would have preferred “Off,” but it was after all a peace march and the sentiment was all the same. When you’re fighting against state-sponsored militarism, you don’t need to look so far as the White House or the lethal U.S. army massing on the Iraqi border. You need only glance over at the body-armor wearing, truncheon wielding, militarily-clad, state-sanctioned thug with a gun glaring at you or the mounted cavalry ready to charge you with a 1500 lbs. animal.
Thus, February 15 was a day of small victories, some defeats, but, if nothing else, it was a start. While New York City was no Rome, with its 1-2+ million turnout, it is significant that within the belly of the beast, on a frigid day, hundreds of thousands took to NYC’s streets to protest a war that has yet to happen. While the Movement might not be where we want it to be just yet, February 15th was still something rather amazing. Look at one of the most famous protests of the Vietnam War era – the 1967 March on the Pentagon 1967. Two years into the ground war, there were 100,000 people total at the Lincoln Memorial rally and only 35-50,000 at the actual march on the Pentagon itself. Or, look at the famed April 1967 Spring Mobilization to End the War where Martin Luther King Jr. and Stokely Carmichael spoke - about 200,000 men and women poured into the streets of New York City. February 15th 2003 compares favorably!
If Washington’s war-mongers don’t heed our call, next time it’ll be 500,000. Or 1,000,000. Next time we call the shots. Next time we choose the route. Be realistic: demand the impossible was the slogan of Paris in 1968. We need to set our sights just as high, and keep demanding more! Next time, the streets are ours!