Clandestinos
Unterwegs im Widerstand (Adventures in Resistance)
Unrast 2007
New Introduction to German Edition
On a warm summers night in 1989 I stood outside the infoladen on Mainzerstrasse as Clash's Spanish Civil War played over the speakers. The decrepit old tenement street was bedecked with bounteous flags and banners hanging from the colorful balconies of the numerous squatted buildings. As a young man exposed to this kind of autonomous squatting community for the first time, it was as if being dropped into some kind of delirious pirate wonderland, and I was enchanted.
Piles of cobblestones adorned the roadside, ready to resist attack, and sure enough, at this moment a bunch of football hooligans from the local east Berlin football club made a drunken foray up the dark, mostly deserted street. Fuck, I thought, the last thing I want to have to do is throw this lovely and full bottle of Berliner Pils in my hand at the thugs. What a terrible waste. The hooligans advanced noisily and slowly, waving sticks and chanting Nazi slogans. Somebody ran out of the infoladen, revved up their motorbike and went off to alert the other houses on other nearby streets.
The Berlin wall had only just come down, and the presence of cops in the old East was desultory. They had, anyhow, no idea how to deal with the sudden influx of a couple of thousand anarchist squatters. We were happy to have no cops around, and so it was up to us to defend the streets from marauding Nazis and football hooligans - of which there were plenty. They had already killed Silvio around the corner at Samariterstraße U-bahn, and firebombed several Mainzer houses.
A young woman emerged from the infoladen. It wasn't so much that she was six foot tall, dressed like a seventeenth century pirate queen, or that she sported lurid purple hair to shock and heavy black boots to kick; no, the most impressive feature was the large heavy wooden cane she carried, like an ancient ornate staff. She wielded the heavy old stick like a lethal nunchuck. "Fucking nazis!" she shouted and stormed off down the street towards the hooligans, facing them alone, one black woman armed with a big stick against twelve white blond- haired boys armed with drunken bravado.
They stopped, starred at her with surprise and horror, then turned on their heels and ran. She pursued them, swinging her big old club, while the rest of us laughed with jubilation at her audacious and bold endeavor. Mainz bleibt meins!
Such was my experience of the Berlin squatting scene. A place that was larger than life and overflowing with extraordinary people and times. Plots were hatched, connections made. Stories wrote themselves. And in that sense, Berlin was the cradle for these stories, Clandestinos : Unterwegs im Widerstand. (Adventures in Resistance).
Berlin formed me, and I carry it with me still. From those days I want to thank my comrades Robert and Oisin, not only for minding my boots that night I left Niederbarnim at dawn and walked to SEK in my bare feet (there was sekt involved), but for years of watching my back and unfettered bacchanalia. Later in NY both friends helped edit this text, and offered welcome criticism and ideas. Thanks to Day, my Mayday and partner in crime; to Paul Hirst, who taught me the nebulous ways of Friedrichsein ; to Simon who walked me through a mountain of bureaucracy to get a pot of gold ; and indeed to the larger Irish crew there involved in the scene who made me feel at home, ha-ha.
Berlin is a place of memories. Running across Alexanderplatz – fleeing the bullen – I met my homey Jorge, with whom I now live, One bloodied dawn, Ike missed the BMW and instead hit my head with a flying bottle, thanks mate. Katja Kunkel picked me off a sofa before the sun rose. Gabriel from Chile painted swirling figures as Brazilian music accompanied his marvelous strokes. Prince Sjorre walked me through a magical labyrinth of garbage, and Lisa Daub opened her door, offering a warm cup of Zapatista coffee.
Thanks to Matze, Stephanie and Lucy, Hubert and Andrea, Boris, Dario, Desi, Albatross, Barbara, Kevin - good German comrades who I admire and cherish.
And thanks to the other companeros who at one stage or another shared the Berlin times – Damian, Jim, Mick Mohawk, Stephen, Theresa, Jean, Tauno, Erik Petersen. To Siabhra Durcan, on the midnight train to Strahov. And to bolt of lightning Blanca GG, who amongst a thousand other things, kicked the early manuscript in to shape.
Cheers to my sisters Linda and Lauren, and my brother Bobby - generous and patient people who may not agree with all of this but have given me so much support, and everything.
Special thanks go to Katja Rameil who translated this difficult book written in Irish vernacular - while pregnant to boot! Katja has been there all along, from the Garden of Delight to Diez de Abril to the birth of Ixim to a pirate boat in Leipzig. Long live Katja, Muz and new life!
And to Niels Barmeyer who understands the English language better than I and hence made a brilliant contribution in reading the early draft of the book. Long life to my compas Niels, Anja and gorgeous Jannes.
Berlin is full of stories of love and despair. Deirdre of the Sorrows broke my young heart in West Germany, and Ana Laura Hernandez set it aflame at the Autonomen Congress of ‘95. And from that tempestuous ten year engagement came our beautiful son Ixim. Everything for Ixim, nothing for ourselves. All of this book is for you Ixim.
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