Received anonymously on 11.10.17:
Last week, we decided to ring in Kara Wild’s trial in Paris by raining the streets of Chicago with shattered glass and popping a cop tire for each month that she has spent in prison. The windows of yuppie shops on the thoroughly gentrified north side stood tall and vulnerable to our hammers. The tires of sheriff cars, brazenly parked on residential streets, challenged us to immobilize them. Only rubber and glass. These are neither tanks nor bunkers. Yet, the tension between evident fragility and apparent untouchability aims to consecrate the impossibility of attack. Every unsmashed window and unslashed tire is a sullen monument to our senile imaginations.
We are tired of walking through these yuppie strongholds knowing that their windows are so easily broken, yet not doing it; tired of walking past cop cars with our pocket knives closed in our fists. Broken windows and popped tires are love letters to circulate between us. Never mind quantifying how much these acts hurt our enemies. By pulling up our masks and smashing their storefronts, we open up that beautiful space in which we can become ourselves, where nothing is sacred but the ties that bind us and the disgust we share for their miserable world. With sudden clarity: We know what we love and we know what we hate.
Too often we justify inaction through vague comparisons to mythical realities where intervention is easier and less risky. We concoct stories about the unparalleled surveillance and repression of wherever we happen to be. By doing this we estrange ourselves from our destructive potential and common desires, distancing ourselves from those who, like Kara and Krem, continue to take calculated risks in the face of brutal consequences. We seek to close this distance and align ourselves with the growing anti-social body that continues to transgress the sanctity of the law. Through repeated attack, we overcome our fears. Once we start smashing things, we forget how to stop.