Day 7: Madrid
I woke at 5 a.m. to everyone else in the dorm leaving, noisily. I say ‘a little quieter, por favor’ and go back to sleep, but it leaves me with a weird feeling. What do they know that I don’t?
At the bus station I’m a little early so get a potato omelette and use the toilets. Of all the toilets I’ve been to since arriving, only one had a working lock and I can imagine it being difficult here for trans people or others who might be worried about getting walked in on. I’m anxious about the bus, but have no problems and soon we are rolling slowly through the plains and canyons of north central Spain, the greenery of the Basque land already diminished to a flat and never ending yellow. Half way there we stop at a gas station for a rest break. In the toilets someone has written ACAB with a circle A in felt tip. It feels like I’m on the right track. An hour before we reach Madrid we rise again into low mountains and the leaves on the trees turn green.
Arriving at the bus station I have a moment of worry when the police look at me funny, wondering what they would make of my revolutionary writings. But nothing happens and I’m soon on the street. Madrid feels more anonymous and work-focused than Bilbao and once on the underground I am instantly reminded of London. Gone are the punks, replaced by well dressed, body conscious individuals who do not smile. Arriving at Tetuán, where I have arranged to meet S, K’s friend, I find posters for a gym covering Anarchist ones. I remove them and politely re stick them underneath. A moment later a swarm of joggers runs past, intensely focused on themselves. I wait.
S told me 11 minutes – seems pretty exact, but he isn’t on time. When he arrives he is a pleasant young basque man in the classic anarchist mould, tall and thin and free spirited. He’s intense though, and interested in the politics – good to talk to. He shows me to the squat, which is well kitted out with a bunch of rooms and a cooker. They have five or six squats in this area, he tells me, which is interesting – it doesn’t feel like a sub-cultural neighbourhood, just poor. There are two others staying, young anarchists recently come from the Hamburg forest. They’ll have to remain somewhat faceless here for security reasons. S takes me to the market where I buy some stuff for dinner and a couple of beers. He has to run to an assembly – the word they use for meetings here – so I walk back to the squat alone. On the way, I find a nub of hash in a bag – serendipity or what! Get back and have a drink and a smoke and feel good. Serious conversation about the inevitability of climate rebellion – and what it means – in English enlivens the evening. I crash happy.
Day 8: Madrid
Wake up and head out early for coffee and a cigarette at a cafe, where I write a song. There’s an idea floating for me and the Hamburg crew to do a little concert in two days’ time. Could be fun and one of them likes screaming in songs so I write a scream into the chorus. There’s a first time for everything, but I’ll let him do it – my vocal chords probably couldn’t handle that and my current smoking habit. The squat has a fucked up lock, so we can only open it from outside, but it doesn’t really slow anything down too much. We have neighbours just round the corner who are happy to pop round and open it up. On the way back from the cafe I run into the crew on its way out to a potential eviction. I turn around and go with them. We jump the metro and catch a few different trains. People are talking about the new Tarantino movie. They liked it. We discuss whether he is right or left wing – I argue he’s on the right but I get the idea I’m in a minority. Oh well, we arrive at the squat to find 50+ anarchists and poor squatters standing in the road waiting for security to arrive. They never do. The authorities call an organiser and when they hear how many of us there are they decide to come another day, ‘with riot police and firefighters’ – they say.
Heading back to the squat there’s some discussion of the different Anarchist groups in Europe. I get the impression we are similar all over, and facing similar issues – the eviction of our squats and social centres by newly confident right-wing governments and the unapproachability of serious direct action from a context which is relatively insecure. Alongside this, there is a little of the usual culture of revolutionary tourism and ‘living the life’ at the expense of efficiency, outreach and action. Then again, maybe I’m just hot and moany – I’d thought to have a day off today and sabotaged it again. Back at the squat, everyone else heads for siesta while I feel driven to write something. I get about a paragraph in – hadda get some music going, smoke, glass of water, faff – and the others get up to go liberate dinner. I’m down for a break and follow, even though I shouldn’t. First thing we do is head to a comrade’s to sort out some fancier clothes. One of us, who is gender non-binary, is getting changed in front of us – yes, I’m cis, used to be heterosexual and I’m a prudish Brit and no, I don’t know where to look, but I figure not staring is always the cool thing – and gets a call from the police. Turns out it’s just they’ve found a friend’s wallet but it makes them sweat for a minute.
The comrade who we’re borrowing the clothes from lends me a book in English, ‘total liberation’ – it looks interesting. We head out and I split off and go buy coffee and a croissant and read, feeling like a tourist and a bad person. Glad I did it though – the book is essentially the article I was trying to write, but ten times better. Head back for dinner and get invited to an assembly at 9. I also agree to give a talk on the IRA – should be fun. They have a lot of support here – I may be in the rare position of being more critical of them than everyone else in the room. We bike to the assembly, an experience scarily like playing a video game – I have to remind myself I have no spare lives, I’m just not as aware of the traffic or the street rules as I would be at home – and when we get there an old man is standing by where we lock the bikes. I presume he is a comrade – he seems friendly with the person who brought me. It turns out he is a security guard, as is his son.
The assembly is 50/50 men and women and seems very cool, but all in Spanish with no translation and after the first hour and a half of considering fundamentals of anarchist politics and the way people interact in meetings (with no actual context) I start to struggle. Cigarettes, changing my position, playing with my phone – this thing’s been going on for 3 hours now and I just wish I could understand some basic meaning. Ah well. There’s a tonne of ants near where I’m sat but none of them seem to be biting me. Anti-speciesist solidarity?
– Later
Jesus, did I get antsy at that thing. Too much experience of meetings made me overly self aware and I tried to look interested throughout cause I didn’t want to sabotage the vibe. You try looking interested when there are 1000 ants by your non-socked feet, you’re sitting on asphalt and you can’t understand more than 1 word in 20 that everyone’s saying. It’s not fun.
Still strangely glad I went though. It was interesting to watch, interesting to note the intensity of emotion combined with mutual respect of the participants – the product, I guess of all being committed to the action in question – and the absolute disregard for having a chairperson or any of the more hierarchical aspects of British leftist organisation. Behind the city thunder sparks in the clouds, the yellow light glows over the main road at the bottom of the hill from where we’re sat and I smoke cigarettes and watch the cars go past, so insecure and so unaware. Afterwards a few people give me a summary of the meeting; it was very intense, they say, because the decision as to whether to continue the squat affects everyone, but the people squatting are very tired. Spanish law means that new people entering a squat that is marked for eviction do so illegally (approximately – the detail is hard to translate) so the weight is on the current squatters to keep the place open. Me and A hop back on our bikes and head for the Embos and she gives me a running commentary on anarchist politics here as we slide through red lights, watching each way and laughing when we’re stopped by the flow of traffic. Back at the squat there is a minor plan developing, details of which I’ll leave hazy, but suffice to say a few of us go on a walk later and it makes us feel much better. There’s a woman here with us, J, who I’m attracted to, but it’s reasonably exploitative – I just wanna fuck. I get the impression she doesn’t and more to the point, my lack of Spanish leaves me unable to make decent jokes.
Let’s face it, if you can’t find out if you share a sense of humour, you aren’t getting anywhere, but my damn stupid subconscious isn’t listening and when she decides to sleep in the same room (in uncertain English, ‘Maybe I’ll sleep with you… in your room though’) keeps me in a state of suppressed tension all night. Damn, someone told me my grandmother is reading this.
Screamo:
I see your faces
I see your smiles
But I don’t understand
What keeps you going all the while
The world is burning
My love is dying and I I I I I
[screams]
I see you working
I see you dressing
but tell me how you feel
the world is burning
my love is dying and I, I, I, I
[screams]
and if I could feel the wind of your soul
if I could feel your heartbeat alone
I could believe there was something in you
something we could both call home
Day 9: Madrid
Sun comes up, it’s Wednesday morning… I lie in bed and sort the necessary on my phone. After that I don’t do too much except work on my talk. When evening comes it’s at 75% and I’ve stopped freaking out it won’t be done. I walk round to M’s place, another squat round the corner from the Embos and we all chip in to making a dinner for the community. It’s a nice example of vegan slop, with the ever present lentils and rice and everyone’s just as late as they would be at home. I just love the anarchist community…
If I seem a little neggy, don’t worry, I bounced back a couple hours later when, everyone else having flaked out, I convinced S to go on a little walk with me, dragging him away from putting a film list together for the talk. As always with these things it’s a lot of fun and the only thing I have to complain about is that my spelling in Espanol is fucking shite – no-one’s fault but my own. When we get back he says ‘and now I go back to my work, fuck you’ and gives me the finger and I feel that warming intensity of shared spirit I’ve been lucky enough to enjoy more than once since being here. Earlier today my comrade told me the decision I made a few months back to dedicate my life to the struggle was one that many of us were making, and I was not alone, or even unusual in the choice I made.
Sleep is a blanket of warmth like the arms of someone I love.
Day 10: Madrid
Talk day! I work like a motherfucker to get it done, with slides and everything, like being in college again, then catch a siesta till 6. We get one person turn up a little early, then a couple more an hour later and we begin. For once in my life I haven’t over written and even with everything said twice – once in English and once in translation – we don’t over run. I’m glad to have given it and maybe I make people think a little. People come and go and we watch Bloody Sunday, which almost makes me cry, despite the thousands of others who’ve died before and since. I couldn’t quite tell you why. My depression only lifts after a load of chocolate, some orange juice and coffee. J and the internationalists are about and we go for a walk in the city, dumpster dive – pretty much everything we find isn’t vegan – and I know I told you my lips would be sealed but I’m reasonably certain this isn’t prosecutable, we egg the fuck out of the Spanish Socialist Party (PSOE) office round the corner.
We end up back at the Embos watching It Follows, which is pretty good if a bit slow and my subconscious still refuses to shut the fuck up. When it’s over I walk J round the corner to get ready for her flight at 7 to Marseilles for the Anarchist Bookfair there, jealous as ever of:
- Her cheap and apparently guilt free air travel
- Her opportunity to see Marseilles and the anarcho scene
- Her girlfriend
Before I go she says we’ll stay in touch by Whatsapp but by this point the main brain is sitting on top of the lizard brain and showing it who’s boss and my heart doesn’t even lift a little. Back at the lab I knock out a song for the way I feel, still positive from the chocolate and action:
Don’t Look Back
If being a decent guy
ain’t what gets you high
well that’s alright
if seeing you ain’t mine
makes you wanna start a fight
well I don’t mind
But don’t blame it on me
The pain you feel
it ain’t my fault
For being me
Never said I needed you
but you needed me
So don’t chain me down
Cause i’ll break the chain
I don’t need your key
And if the dreams I have
You can’t believe
Well I’ll take that chance
Time is moving on
If you wait behind
I won’t change your mind
But don’t hold me back
The pain I feel
it drives me on
To paint the whole world black
I want you here
but that don’t mean
I’m gonna run on your track
So don’t be surprised
If we say goodbye
When I don’t look back
Cause I’m goddamn fucking free
and that’s a fact
Ah yeah
I’m goddamn fucking free
and that’s a fact
if you take the time
to liberate your mind
then you will find
me at your side
fighting hard
not fighting blind
for a world where we
could find a place
both yours and mine
So don’t hold me back
The pain I feel
it drives me on
To paint the whole world black
I want you here
but that don’t mean
I’m gonna run on your track
So don’t be surprised
If we say goodbye
When I don’t look back
If you’re wondering by now why I’m telling you all this, it’s because the paper always deserves the truth, even if it ain’t pretty.
By 6.15 I’m dead to the world.
Day 11: Madrid
I awaken from two hours’ sleep and a dream where I am in a rich man’s house? Maybe? With some extinction rebellion older hippy dude and a couple others (I think the internationalists from the squat)… there are a couple of prize racehorses in a room, skinny and small, like children. They look ok until we realise they have blood between their legs. The music is on and there is weed smoke in the air. The phone rings and it is the police calling the owner of the house looking for his family… he has committed suicide on the other side of the country. I look across and the XR guy is using a wire brush to clean the blood from a chair. I shout at him to stop – he doesn’t hear over the sound of the music – I shout and shout until I am right beside him and grab him by the hair. In the real world, there is a sound of banging from the door and I run down the stairs with an erection bouncing everywhere (1) – I thought it was someone trying to get in but it is our friend who lives here who is going to university. He can’t get the door open from the inside, a problem that has been happening on and off since I arrived. We bang away at it and another comrade shows from upstairs – by this point, fortunately, the erection has deflated – and I go to get the key to pass to someone outside to open the door. I’m standing by the window when somehow he manages it – never, ever use this lock any more, he says and we nod and he goes and I crumble back up the stairs to bed to write this weird shit down before it slips from my head…
I wrote that at 8:30am – it would be sad if it wasn’t so goddamn funny.
– Later
Decent day doing basics; laundry, food, bag packing. I go out with Manu, new geezer in the flat, for beers and a joint and we chat about the struggle. We share a lot – we’re both relatively un-queer, non straight edge men, we both feel that we can achieve the most when we’re near our homes and we like similar music – if in different languages. I feel like I’ve made a proper friend in someone I didn’t really expect to. When I get back one of the internationalists cooks dinner and we talk about all sorts of stuff from ‘which variety of anarchist are you then?’ to ‘how do Australians pronounce things?’ Him and his partner are fun to be with and as the rain comes down with all the intensity that long dry days can bring I feel warm and close to these people and find myself looking out the window at the downpour and saying ‘the world doesn’t want me to leave Madrid.’ When the rain stops I go out and meet M at her home and the sense of family is complete; as we dumpster dive together and she tells me about her ongoing ‘terrorism’ case for allegedly bricking a window (2) I feel that same sense of comradeship that has haunted me since I first arrived in Santander – haunted, because it’s so hard to act on, when all the machinery of nations is aligned to prevent our solidarity. When I leave after hugging everyone and exchanging contact details it’s almost like leaving home again and I feel an echo of the mystery and adventure and tension that filled me as I got onto the boat in Plymouth.
I’m early for the bus, bit of a rare thing – maybe I’m getting better at this? – and buy a load of very unvegan food in hopes it’ll kick back against a developing sore throat (don’t judge me, it worked). I have a half a beer and find my usual first-drink depression settling in. Waiting outside the station I become a sort of cigarette distribution point for local Romanian folks and I’m mildly glad to have the excuse to leave off catching the bus. On the way a priest in dog collar points out where I’ve dropped my baccy. Supporting me in slow suicide doesn’t seem very Christian but I say gracias. Almost miss the bus anyway cause it’s at the wrong stand and then settle in to my seat – lucky bastard, I just happen to have another empty one next to me – and try to find a comfortable position to go to sleep. I talk to my dad on the phone but we’re both in a funny state of mind and ring off before we can get pissy with each other. Leaving Madrid behind I’m caught by the realisation of its size; I regret not having truly explored. Oh well, I drift off into an uncomfortable doze as the darkened landscape flows by.
Footnotes:
(1) This was a constant presence in the mornings throughout the trip and had nothing to do with the dream, which was probably a result of the horror movie and a meme I saw the night before about David Cameron starting to hunt on horseback again.
(2) There were also a variety of other charges made against this person, none of which I believe to any degree, some involving bombs etc. The general comment among comrades in Spain was that false charges were a way of attempting to terrorise the movement by the Spanish state.
Centre of the Web 