Friday, 20 January 2012

die Zwangsräumung

Just before the end of the squat, at a bittersweet celebration of great times soon to be over, in they come: an olive-drab clad clan of about a dozen of what is known as a Hundertschaft. Their physical build is deceptive, with flack jackets broadening their shoulders, and their combat boots and helmets giving each easily another ten centimeters. The riot police.

Though one of the functions of a Hundertschaft is to cause the riots to justify their existence, this time round they don't do more than a strut-march through, eye-balling the squatters and guests. They'll garner no reaction; everybody knows what's sitting out front.

Not that there isn't plenty of evidence indicating an already ripeness for pickin'. But if they were gonna start clearing us out now, they'd've picked an obvious troublemaker from amongst the mass and started giving him or her shit.

This is a reconnaissance mission, establishing how many, how drunk and/or high, and how physically imposing they think the crowd might be.

And how we react.

It doesn't always run this smoothly: Somebody spits, they crack a skull, the crowd breaks loose, followed by all hell. They do what they want as long as they have the power and determination.

Depending upon their assessment, the crackdown will come somewhere between two to five hours from now. Considering the size of the party, they'll probably wait 'til sunup.

The law doesn't apply. They are not the law. They are the power. Tonight's sequence of events is all about a disciplined execution of that power.