Que Se Vayan Todos: Argentina's Popular Rebellion.
An eyewitness account of the financial meltdown and ongoing
grassroots rebellion.
A beautiful 16 page tabloid size publication, complete with fantastic
full page images (by Argentina Arde and Andrew Stern) of the popular
rebellion in Argentina has just been produced. If you would like
copies write to artactivism@gn.apc.org - stating how many you would
like ( they are free - all you pay is postage - despatched from the
US).
yours rebelliously
JJ and JW
sorry for cross psoting
The full text is below.
Que Se Vayan Todos: Argentina's Popular Rebellion.
An eyewitness account of the financial meltdown and ongoing
grassroots rebellion.
Routines and Rebellions
15th Feb. 2002
Your tickets are invalid," says the heavily lipsticked agent at
theVarig airlines check-in counter in southern Brazil. Her eyes flick
to the next person in line. We protest vehemently, as we've had no
problem using the tickets. She is not impressed, and calls for her
manager, who explains to us that Varig no longer recognizes the
reciprocity of any tickets issued through Aerolineas Argentina. "They
cannot be trusted now," she informs us gravely, showing us the memo
announcing the new policy. "We no longer do business with them." This
is our first experience of the rippling effects of the Argentinean
financial crisis.
At the Aerolineas Argentina ticket counter, the agent is
friendly, and seems a bit embarrassed. He books us tickets on the
next flight to Buenos Aires. His demeanor suggests that of a man who
does not know if he will have a job tomorrow. We board the plane,
hoping that the massive layoffs and budget cuts have not reached air
traffic control, aerospace engineering, safety inspection, and other
related sectors. We arrive safely, get ourselves a cheap hotel, and
bleary-eyed, head out for a coffee.
In the corner of the cafe a television with the volume down
is tuned into the Cronica channel - a uniquely Argentinean phenomenon
- non-stop live trashy "news," seemingly unedited, with unbelievably
bad and erratic camera work, and featuring the same lone reporter who
seems to pop up all over town at random. Our introduction to Cronica
is "live and direct" scenes from the beach, complete with close-up
shots of thongs which zoom out and reveal beach volleyball games and
languid sunbathers. There's a massive social rebellion going on in
this country, and the news is live and direct from the beach!
After about 20 minutes of beach footage, it cuts to the news
studio. Two "presenters" appear, in the form of shockingly
pink-haired puppets! This is beyond ridiculous, here we are,
desperate for news of the rebellion, and all we can get is puppet
shows and thongs. After some "live and direct" from the local
football team's practice, we finally are rewarded with images of
people banging pots and pans while invading the lobby of a bank. We
quickly drink up our coffee, ask the waiter how to get to the
financial district, jump on a bus, and arrive there in minutes.
Financial districts look much the same all over the world,
whether in the City of London, New York, or Frankfurt, but here in
Buenos Aires there is one major difference - huge corrugated sheets
of steel cover many of the bank headquarters, especially the foreign
ones, like Citibank, HSBC, and Lloyds. Gone are the grand entrance
halls; the prestigious shiny surfaces of glass and marble are hidden
behind blank facades of grey steel, and the only access is through
tiny doors cut into the sheet metal, through which suited figures
pass, heads bowed, entering these fortresses as if banking has become
a secretive, clandestine activity.
The strong smell of wet paint hangs in the air, fresh
graffiti covers the steel shuttering and walls, saying "ladrones," or
thieves. The action can't be far away. We split up and scout the
area, listening for the clang of metal upon metal, the ineffable
noise that has become the soundtrack to this rebellion, but hear
nothing, find nothing. It seems that we are too late.
Economic Freefall
We've arrived on a Friday. Every Friday night since mid-December last
year, there has been a massive cacerolazo in Buenos Aires, when the
people converge in the political center of the city, the Plaza de
Mayo, and create an enormous racket by banging on cacerolas, or
saucepans. These huge cacerolazos developed spontaneously on the 19th
of December 2001, the day when the uprising exploded, after
smoldering in the provinces for several years, and now involving just
about every sector of Argentinean society.
Argentina suffered two and a half decades of International
Monetary Fund-(IMF) backed "free-market reforms," which meant
privatizing everything: water, telephone systems, postal services,
railways, electricity - you name it - even the zoo was privatized.
When the Asian and Russian markets crashed in 1998, foreign
investment dried up in the so-called "emerging markets." Argentina
was hit badly, a major recession struck, and foreign lenders asked
for their money back, on time.
According to the IMF, the only way the Argentinean government
could repay the $132 billion debt, some of which dated from the
military dictatorship, was by making more cuts in social spending,
especially as many people, sick of political corruption, had stopped
paying their taxes. Pensions, unemployment benefits, health care, and
education all were cut drastically, and all state employees had their
salaries slashed by 13%. It was the same old story repeated across
the world - as countries are forced into deeper and deeper debt, the
IMF strip mines their economies for the benefit of foreign banks and
bond traders.
In fact, it was the bond markets, unsatisfied with the pace
of the austerity plans, who proved to be even harsher task masters
than the IMF. Unlike the IMF, they never bothered to send delegations
to negotiate, they simply jacked up interest rates on debt issuances,
in some instances from 9% to 14% in a fortnight.
Now, after four years of recession, one out of every five
Argentineans is unemployed, and some economists say this could soon
double. 40% of the population is now living below the poverty line,
and another 2000 people fall below it every day. Hospitals are
running out of basic supplies like bandages and syringes, schools are
shutting down because teachers aren't being paid, child mortality and
hunger is on the rise, and this is all occurring in what once was one
of the wealthiest countries in the world, for decades considered the
great success story of neoliberal development in the "developing"
world, the star pupil of the "Washington Consensus," and the main
advocate for free trade in the region.
As the recession worsened, Argentinean stock plummeted, and
the unpopular austerity measures became increasingly vicious.
Protests spread further across the country. Things climaxed in
December 2001 when, grasping for straws, the government decided to
try a complicated re negotiation of its debt repayments. Fearful that
the entire economic house of cards was going to come tumbling down
and that the currency would be devalued, thus wiping out their life
savings, the middle classes panicked and withdrew about $135 billion
from their bank accounts.
Fearing that a run on the banks would sink the economy, the detested
finance minister, Domingo Cavallo, announced sweeping restrictions
limiting the amount of money Argentineans could withdraw from their
accounts. Known as the corralito, these measures included a monthly
limit of $1000 on cash withdrawals in addition to caps on off-shore
transfers. With all the facets of the crisis interlocking, the
economy was effectively paralyzed.
The IMF freaked out, due to the banking restrictions and the
debt repayment plan, which would severely impact foreign banks, as
they own 40% of Argentina's debt. They refused to lend any more
money, and within weeks Argentina defaulted on its loans, the first
time a country had done so in years. From this moment the economy was
in free fall. On the 13th of December, a general strike called by
major unions brought the country to a grinding halt for 24 hours. Six
days later the popular rebellion exploded into the streets, where it
remains today.
The Tin Pot Insurection
December the 19th was the turning point, the day when the Argentinean
people said "enough!" The stage was set the day before, when people
began looting shops and supermarkets so they could feed their
families. The president, Fernando De La Rua, panicked. Twelve years
ago, major looting toppled the government, and now, within the
Argentinean collective memory, looting is linked to the collapse of
regimes. De La Rua declared a state of emergency, suspending all
constitutional rights, and banning meetings of more than three
people. That was the last straw. Not only did it bring back traumatic
memories of the seven year military dictatorship which killed over
30,000 people, but also it meant that the state was taking away the
last shred of dignity from a hungry and desperate population - their
freedom.
On the evening of December 19th, our friend Ezequiel was on
the phone with his brother who lives on the other side of Buenos
Aires. They were casually chatting, when his brother suddenly said,
"Hang on, can you hear that noise?" Ezequiel strained to hear a kind
of clanging sound coming through the receiver." Yes, I can hear
something on your side of the city but nothing here." They continued
talking, and then Ezequiel paused, and said, "Wait, now I can hear
something in my neighborhood, the same sound...." He ran to the
window.
People were standing on their balconies banging saucepans,
were coming out onto the sidewalks banging pots; like a virulent
virus of hope, the cacerolazo, which began as a response to the state
of emergency, had infected the entire city. Before the president's
televised announcement of the state of emergency was over, people
were in the streets disobeying it. Over a million people took part in
Buenos Aires alone, banging their pots and pans and demanding an end
to neoliberal policies and corrupt governments. That night the
finance minister resigned, and over the next 24 hours of street
protest, plainclothes policemen killed seven demonstrators in the
city, while 15 more were killed in the provinces. The president
resigned shortly thereafter, and was evacuated from the presidential
palace by helicopter.
Within a fortnight four more governments fell. Argentina was
now set on a major high-speed collision course, with the needs and
desires of its people on one side, and the demands of the IMF, the
inept government, and global capitalism on the other.
Rivers of Sound
15th Feb. 2002
Our friends tell us to meet them for tonight's cacerolazo in the cafe
of the Popular University of the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo. The place
is an enormous social centre, right opposite the national congress
building, and is run by the well-known mothers of the disappeared,
whose courageous actions brought to the attention of the world the
mass disappearances during the military dictatorship between 1976 and
1983.
Surrounded by shelves crammed with books, journals, and
newspapers documenting radical Latin American political struggles, we
drink the quintessential Argentinean drink of health and friendship,
yerba mate, an extraordinary herbal infusion that increases energy
and mental alertness and is believed to contain all of the vitamins
necessary to sustain life. The warm drink is served in a gourd with a
silver straw and is passed around and shared between friends. No
political meeting in Argentina is complete without mate, and some of
us wonder whether this seemingly innocuous green twiggy tea is the
secret ingredient behind this country's inspirational rebellion.
Night falls, and before long we begin to hear the repetitive
rhythm of pot-and-pan banging drift across the square. A small crowd
of around fifty people has congregated in the street - they are
young, old, rich, poor, smartly dressed, scruffy, but all are armed
with spoons, forks, and a whole variety of metal objects to hit:
cooking pots, lids, kettles, Coke cans, car parts, biscuit tins, iron
bars, baking trays, car keys. The rhythm is high pitched and
monotonous, and above it people sing catchy tunes instead of dull
political chanting; often they include the key slogan of this
movement: que se vayan todos, they all must go, meaning that the
ENTIRE political class goes, every politician from every party, the
supreme court, the IMF, the multinational corporations, the banks -
everyone out so the people can decide the fate of this economically
crippled country themselves.
Our friend Eva tells us that the movement has lost some of
its momentum over the last few weeks. We admit to being surprised by
how small this crowd is - having imagined the cacerolazos to be
enormous. But as we're thinking this, we reach a crossroads. To our
right we see another crowd, perhaps twice as big as ours, coming
towards us, waving and cheering. We continue for a few more blocks,
and on the next street corner another stream of people flows out from
the underground station, singing and jumping up and down as it merges
with our group, another junction and yet more people come towards us.
We began as 50, grew to a hundred or more, then we were two
hundred, then five, then a thousand, two thousand, perhaps more.
Rivers of people pouring into each other, growing bigger and bigger,
rising to a roaring, banging torrent as we near the final
destination, the Plaza de Mayo, where the presidential palace, the
Pink House, stands protected behind police lines and barricades.
The Neighbourhoods Rise
Every week people make this pilgrimage, from every corner of Buenos
Aires, some of them coming as far as seven kilometres. They walk with
their asembleas populares, the neighborhood meetings which have
spontaneously sprouted up over the last few months in over 200
different neighborhoods in the city, and throughout the surrounding
provinces. These assemblies are rapidly becoming autonomous centres
of community participation. Most meet weekly (the more ambitious,
twice a week!), and all meet outside - in squares, parks, and even on
street corners.
Every Sunday there is an assembly of assemblies, an
inter-neighborhood plenary in a park, attended by over 4000 people
and often running for more than 4 hours. Spokespeople from rich,
poor, and middle class districts attend to report back on the work
and proposals of their local assemblies, share ideas, and debate
strategy for the following week's city-wide mobilizations.
The local assemblies are open to almost anyone, although one
assembly has banned bankers and party activists, and others have
banned the media. Some assemblies have as many as 200 people
participating, others are much smaller. One of the assemblies we
attended had about 40 people present, ranging from two mothers
sitting on the sidewalk while breast feeding, to a lawyer in a suit,
to a skinny hippie in batik flares, to an elderly taxi driver, to a
dreadlocked bike messenger, to a nursing student. It was a whole
slice of Argentinean society standing in a circle on a street corner
under the orange glow of sodium lights, passing around a brand new
megaphone and discussing how to take back control of their lives.
Every now and then a car would pass by and beep its horn in support,
and this was all happening between 8pm and midnight on a Wednesday
evening!
It all seemed so normal, and yet was perhaps the most
extraordinary radical political event I'd ever witnessed - ordinary
people seriously discussing self-management, spontaneously
understanding direct democracy and beginning to put it into practice
in their own neighborhoods. Multiply this by 200 in this city alone,
and you have the makings of an irresistible popular rebellion, a
grassroots uprising which is rejecting centralized political power.
As Roli, an accountant from the Almagro assembly said: "People reject
the political parties. To get out of this crisis requires real
politics. These meetings of common people on the street are the
fundamental form of doing politics."
Outside of the weekly meetings, the assemblies meet in
smaller committees, each one dedicated to a different local issue or
problem. Committees of health are common - with many local hospital
budgets slashed, there is an urgent need to develop alternatives to
the collapsing welfare system. Some are suggesting that people who
own their own homes withhold their property tax, and instead give
that money to the local hospitals. Many assemblies also have
alternative media committees, as there is a widespread critique of
the mainstream media's representation of the rebellion. It took a
large cacerolazo outside their head offices to get them to cover the
uprising more accurately. However, the spirit of distrust for any
enormous corporate entity remains at large, and local assemblies are
beginning to print their own news sheets, broadcast updates on local
radio stations, and put up web sites.
In addition to the innumerable meetings and the weekly
cacerolazo, the assemblies also organize local street parties and
actions. In one neighborhood, for example, the assembly organized
pickets to prevent the authorities from closing down a baker who
could not afford to pay his rent.
For many of the assembly participants, this is the first time
they have been involved in any form of grassroots mobilization in
their lives. By creating a space for people to listen to each other's
problems and desires for change, the assemblies have enabled people
to realize that their personal daily struggles are connected to other
people's problems, and that all roads eventually lead to a similar
source, whether it is the government, the banks, the IMF, or the
entire economic system itself. An elderly shopkeeper, whose
experience is representative of many participants, said "Never in my
whole life did I give a shit for anyone else in my neighborhood. I
was not interested in politics. But this time I realized that I have
had enough and I needed to do something about it."
For radical change to occur, transformation has to take place
in our minds as well as in social structures, and it is often on the
tongue through the tool of language that one can trace some of the
most radical shifts in consciousness. A beautiful illustration of
this is that out of the experience of the assemblies, a new form of
greeting has arisen. The traditional political leftist form of
