Anarchism's Last Stand

Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 6
June 23 - 29, 2006

Hookers. Drugs. Dark alleyways glimmering with leftover rain. Slowly shifting shadows. Tight old streets with too much happening. A man walks by with a fresh black eye swelling up on his face. Maybe he’s been there. Another man passes, skinny and gaunt like characters in a Kirchner painting. Dark clothing, dirty skin, and sunken eyes stumbling past. Welcome to the dark side. Only a few steps from the junkies and it’s time to take a right. I've been told I can find who I’m looking for here. From the looks of things, they didn’t lie. Calle de Robadors must be named so for a reason. Empty pockets. Head up, eyes down. At number 25, the black sheep of the political world. Total darkness. The complete unknown. People that never got any mention in the textbooks. Not in guiriland at least. But I’m not in Kansas anymore. I’m on the dark side of El Raval . . . hunting anarchists.
I’ve walked by buildings with the anarchist “A” spray-painted all over. They were the same buildings with the devastated entrances, broken windows, mutilated mannequins posed in balconies, skeletons hanging from walls. A friend said, “Okupas,” I drew a blank. The idea of Anarchism for me simply doesn’t wash. And after two years in the city, my idea isn’t much clearer. I’ve seen them, their dogs, their big boots, their mohawks. Who are these people? Hence the bar.
The metal grate is half down, covering everything save a sticker promising any fascists in the vicinity a pair of hostias. So much for nonviolence. I bend down to see a motley crew of hombres on a motley crew of sofas but when I knock on the dirty glass, they think I’m mistaken. Another knock gets me into a well-lit (what happened to the dark side?), crowded and dirty (that’s more like it) medium-sized room. There’s one table I expected to see; full of those big black boots, mohawks and shaved heads, black mesh shirts over black bras. Anarchist sexuality. Weird. But it turns out they occupy nothing. They pay rent. I feel cheated. The other tables are “normal.”
What’s the deal? This is the lightest “dark” place I’ve ever been. The street outside is more intimidating. Then I start to read the walls. They are enlightening. Posters, flyers, framed pictures, amateur art, and printouts are everywhere. Free wall space is covered with writing. The law is a spider-web that traps the flies and lets the birds pass through. The picture above the basic kitchen-counter-of-a-bar is of the Catalan police, Mossos d’Esquadra but the “M” has been changed to a “G” making them “Dogs d’Esquadra.” Up high near the ceiling: Prison is daily murder. Another poster speaks pure Anarchism, Better drugged than organized, and when you think about all the bad that’s been done thanks to consolidated power, it makes some sense. In the bathroom (which is not for the faint of heart) there is a keeper scrawled in permanent marker: If at any moment you find yourself on the side of the majority, it’s time to reflect.
At it’s worst this place is dim, not dark. It’s like a frat house with a political conscience and no elitism. It’s stimulating, borderline inspirational. But it ain’t clean. If you're a clean freak, this is one of the darker places you could go. But if you’re a liberal, transplanted guiri you’ll like it. But get your dark fix back in the street.