Terwilliger
04-25-2008, 09:40 PM
http://www.counterpunch.com/maher04252008.html
"We Are Not Terrorists"
Embedded with the Tupamaros
By GEORGE CICCARIELLO-MAHER
Caracas.
It is a Friday night in Caracas, Venezuela. We are standing in the back of a pickup truck surrounded by dozens of motorcycles, tearing through the streets of Catia, the massive slum area that makes up nearly half the population of the city. On the motorcycles, revolutionaries young and old, women and men, some masked and waving flags, weave back and forth, sometimes ahead of the truck, sometimes behind. Two large speakers are blaring songs by revolutionary folk musician Alí Primera while a voice calls on the community to halt the repression of its most radical elements.
Fliers are distributed by throwing entire handfuls toward the crowded sidewalks. The motorcycles surge ahead, down narrow barrio streets, to coordinate the progress of the truck and the many cars following it in the caravan, as they make their way through the sometimes clogged streets. Occasionally there is confusion: we cannot pass this way, and the truck is slowly turned around as onlookers, some awestruck some annoyed, watch from the crowded sidewalks. The caravan pauses occasionally, occupying an entire intersection for several minutes, chanting revolutionary slogans:
Now more than ever, we are united,
radical groups and popular militias
And, in reference to the historically-revolutionary neighborhood that most of these groups call home:
23 de Enero, people’s army
Each time we stop, a motorcyclist dismounts to set up an apparatus, makeshift but sturdy, for launching giant bottle rockets into the sky. The deafening explosions only heighten the drama of the caravan. At one point, a young teenager darts past with what looks like a bundle of burlap. A perimeter is cleared, and he lights what turns out to be a massive firework, but one which detonates on the street rather than in the air. The explosion is deafening. It looks like an earth-bound supernova.
For more than two hours we wind through these streets, fumes from the motorcycles and the generator burning my throat and eyes. But I am seeing areas that would be impossible for me to visit without the security offered by these revolutionary militias, these “Tupamaros.”
<snip>
...........MORE..........
"We Are Not Terrorists"
Embedded with the Tupamaros
By GEORGE CICCARIELLO-MAHER
Caracas.
It is a Friday night in Caracas, Venezuela. We are standing in the back of a pickup truck surrounded by dozens of motorcycles, tearing through the streets of Catia, the massive slum area that makes up nearly half the population of the city. On the motorcycles, revolutionaries young and old, women and men, some masked and waving flags, weave back and forth, sometimes ahead of the truck, sometimes behind. Two large speakers are blaring songs by revolutionary folk musician Alí Primera while a voice calls on the community to halt the repression of its most radical elements.
Fliers are distributed by throwing entire handfuls toward the crowded sidewalks. The motorcycles surge ahead, down narrow barrio streets, to coordinate the progress of the truck and the many cars following it in the caravan, as they make their way through the sometimes clogged streets. Occasionally there is confusion: we cannot pass this way, and the truck is slowly turned around as onlookers, some awestruck some annoyed, watch from the crowded sidewalks. The caravan pauses occasionally, occupying an entire intersection for several minutes, chanting revolutionary slogans:
Now more than ever, we are united,
radical groups and popular militias
And, in reference to the historically-revolutionary neighborhood that most of these groups call home:
23 de Enero, people’s army
Each time we stop, a motorcyclist dismounts to set up an apparatus, makeshift but sturdy, for launching giant bottle rockets into the sky. The deafening explosions only heighten the drama of the caravan. At one point, a young teenager darts past with what looks like a bundle of burlap. A perimeter is cleared, and he lights what turns out to be a massive firework, but one which detonates on the street rather than in the air. The explosion is deafening. It looks like an earth-bound supernova.
For more than two hours we wind through these streets, fumes from the motorcycles and the generator burning my throat and eyes. But I am seeing areas that would be impossible for me to visit without the security offered by these revolutionary militias, these “Tupamaros.”
<snip>
...........MORE..........