All Loud on the Liberation Front
A Coward’s Account of an Afternoon of Brutality
BY JAY WALKER
Ushered in by demands painted throughout Loring Park that read, “Free Palestine,” I made my way towards a congregation ahead, finding myself at the crossroads of Hennepin and Lyndale avenue. Jesus the traffic was horrific.
The rally was put together by the Anti-War Committee as well as several other political bodies such as American Muslims for Palestine and the Students for Justice in Palestine. Between every speaker, the microphone or megaphone (too damn difficult to tell with the thickheaded rube blocking my view) screeched with an ear splitting, teeth-thrashin’, anus-clenching blast. It was a cantankerous rattlesnake at its most lowdown, having to be tamed and muzzled by audio equipment handlers before being passed on to each orator.
The outrage reached fever pitch. The lurid reports of corpse-filled ice cream trucks and rubble-filled orphanages did their job in winning over the crowd to the cause of liberation. The Gaza Strip: just another Standing Rock or Auschwitz to fill the chapter of human history, covering our insatiable love affair with slaughter. The whole lot of the “Viva Viva Palestina” chanters seemed entirely prepared to host a rehashing of the Nuremberg Trials, this time with Benjamin Netan-yahoo (and his cronies) taking the stand in Loring.
After the speakers finished, I took the opportunity to drain the dragon in a nearby outhouse. The die- in was well underway when I returned.
Standing in the midst of it all, opting not to die-in myself but rather hold up a sign, all pomp and circumstance was interrupted when a sharp popping noise pierced the air. It became jarringly clear that I should blow this popsicle stand. Call me a coward, I am one. I wasn’t fixin’ to be swiss cheese. Many followed suit in escaping. Away from the scene, I asked a few fellow fleeing park goers and activists if they heard multiple shots or one. The testimonies I collected varied in response. Some said one, others reported hearing multiple.
A wannabe John Wilkes Booth must’ve wanted to make his mark on history by gunning down freedom fighters. Scum. The exact type of riffraff that Biden and the rest of the spineless leadership of the West would claim is acting in “self-defense.”
Some murmurings in the grapevine offer another theory. Some activists raised the possibility of the popping noises to be excess noise from an ATV muffler. Schröedinger’s gun shot. Was it real, or are we all hearing things?
After some further digging on the net, like a frantic chimp slamming away at a typewriter, I found that further catastrophe ensued shortly after I got the hell outta Dodge. Some box-cutter-wielding “peace lover” threatened some folks right before his next sobering act: plowing through a group of protesters with his vehicle, treating them as speed bumps rather than human beings with hopes and dreams. Thankfully, no one was slain or injured (no arrests of course), but I know someone who’d certainly be proud.
The Israeli Defense minister, Yoav Gallant, speaking on what he undoubtedly refers to as the “Palestinian Question,” remarked Oct. 9, “We are fighting human animals and will act accordingly.”
If any insights are to be gleaned from the day’s events, it would be that this whole ordeal did not begin with the Hamas attack on Oct. 7. Those who came out to inform the broader public made it clear to point out the 75 year history that serves as a backdrop for the events underway. The occupation and genocide of Palestine is no new development. This conflict first began in 1948 as Ed Sullivan began flashing across cathode-ray idiot boxes across households in every small town, USA.
Some activists offered an interesting point: the U.S. and Israeli media monstrosities may accuse organizations such as Hamas of blood libel as well as everything else under the sun, but it begs the question: Who created Hamas?
Do people wake up and spontaneously take up a hobby of terrorism for shits and giggles? Maybe we ought to consider the plight of the systematically battered and humiliated for once.
As one sign read, “Honk for Peace.”
There is an expectation to report on the matters of the day, to have a finger on the pulse. But, that may conflict with the desire to come home at the end of a long day, with your life intact, and dive into the depths of a shoddily improvised appletini. What’s more important? Self preservation or the truth?
If you aren’t faced with the prospect of bullet pie, are you really a journalist?
Note to Self: Never let yellow-belliedness get in the way of embracing blood, guts, and glory ever again.
J. Walker, Signing Off...