Should we care about the
Free Trade Area of the Americas - FTAA?
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FTAA, or, Free Trade in the Americas, is the ongoing effort to
unite the economies of the Americas into a single free trade area.
Trade ministers will meet for a five-day business forum November 17-21, Monday
through Friday, in Miami, FL.
Here are websites with differing opinions:
And I have heard from:
Hi Spelcastor,
Sorry for delay in responding, this one slipped by. We may indeed be
able to work in an event in Ft. Lauderdale, particularly something related to
the FTAA in Miami, e.g., magical activism. Let me talk to Starhawk about
this and see what she thinks -- I don't yet know what she has planned,
exactly, for Miami. She is out of town at moment, and I'm hoping to meet
with her later in month. If you don't hear back from me, please feel
free to check in around June 30.
warmly,
Mer/for Starhawk
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Take a look at Starhawk's visit to Talahassee.
Thanks to Adam Hurter for passing this along. It's a great read, and
profoundly inspiring given the collapse of the WTO talks in Cancun.
Author/activist/witch Starhawk writing from Cancun, Mexico, where people
are demonstrating at the meetings of the WTO, illustrating love and hope
energy in juxtaposition to the profit/control anti-Earth agenda of WTO
corporate globalization.
a beautiful piece below, please read it...
-adam
Cancun Update 9/12/03 We did it!
Itıs 1:30 pm and Iım so, so happy! We did it. We got through all
their
security, got right up next to the convention center, and blockaded the
roads for three hours, completely snarling all the traffic in the hotel zone
just as the delegates were out for their dinners. All those scattered,
disparate kaleidoscope pieces shifted and shook down into the perfect,
perfect pattern. And up until the moment we did it, I didnıt believe we
could pull it off.
Hereıs how we did it:
The day begins well, with the news that a small team has hung a huge banner
that says "Que les vayan todos/WTO Go Home!" on a giant crane outside
the
conference center. They have been dancing naked three hundred feet up in
the air, and the authorities just donıt know what to do. I wake up
feeling
exhausted and sick, but the news cheers me up.
All day we are meeting, planning and preparing. Over breakfast, Rodrigo
and
I make up a new Spanish verse to one of our chants.
"Somos el viento que sopla
Al imperio que colapsa.."
"We are the wind that blows the Empire down." Iım still
not sure if we
have logistics or communications or a tactical plan, but at least we have a
song.
The Pagan Cluster meets in the morning, practicing the song in the
convergence space. We quickly firm up our logistics, and goes out to the
park to do a ritual of protection and success, asking for the way to be
opened and for a bit of fog around the eyes of the security personnel. The
fog is necessary as we are all in our tourist garb around the convergence
center all day. At home weıve spent a good half hour advising Karla on
just
the right shorts to wear with her blouse, and Josh on what to do with his
hair. I have this pale green pants suit that is truly the perfect outfit,
it looks just like something a tourist would wear in the tropics to pretend
she was having some revolutionary adventure in the jungle, but it actually
has just the right pockets and roll-up sleeves and fit to be practical
action garb. Come to think of it I am having some revolutionary adventure
in the jungle.
The logistics are complicated, and the communication system is cumbersome,
and I wonıt tell you exactly what they are until after the action is over.
But the basic plan is make our way there in ones or twos or small groups, on
public busses or taxis or with rented cars, and then converge at the action
point at the agreed-upon time. Lisa and Juniper and I look respectable but
we also have Brush in our car and his best efforts at looking like a
clean-cut tourist boy fall short of the mark. Heıs wearing some kind of
dark brown pants that look as if heıs slept too many nights in them, and a
dirty brown shirt too heavy for the weather, and a string knit cap over his
unwashed long hair, and altogether he looks like someone who lives in the
woods. But we want him with us, because heıs brilliant and kind and we
like
him, and because of his excellent tactical and scouting abilities.
Juniper and put our drums in the trunk, hidden under beach towels. We
provide ourselves with cover: Doritos, potato chips and Coke. We breeze
through the checkpoints, and park outside the Plaza Caracol, the big
shopping mall right outside the Conference Center. Lisa pulls up and parks
the car right in front of a cop. People are looking up and we see the
giant
banner, still hanging, with the authorities unsure of how to get it down, or
what to do about the climbers attached to it. We look up for a while,
admiring it, the start to walk toward the mall. A young man from Indymedia
who is walking around with his press pass hanging comes dashing up to Brush.
"Hey, donıt you remember me?" he says loudly. "We met in
jail!"
The Security forces are looking at us and Iım hoping they donıt speak
English as I hustle him away. We wander around the mall for a bit, drink
some coffee, wait out a sudden rainstorm. As we emerge, another
dreadlocked, crusty young Indymedia friend comes dashing up to us to point
out the state of the banner removal project above. We shake loose from
him,
now truly sure our cover is blown, then try to talk our way through police
lines to go to our meeting point in the building that houses both the Hard
Rock Café and the Rainforest Café. Iım trying to explain to the
security
guard that I need to get a T-shirt for my stepson at the Hard Rock Café, but
since Iım pretending not to speak Spanish he doesnıt really understand.
Finally we give up and decide to just go around the long way, back through
the parking lot, across the street and through a plaza, back across the
street and through a pedestrian shopping alley, and then up a metal stairway
that is part of their new security installations, allowing them to
barricade the street.
Now weıre having a rather hilarious interlude as various groups gather, mill
around, and pretend not to know each other. Everyone seems to be in
costume
as surfers or some sort of tourist, looking cleaner and more spruced up than
normal. Even Brush now has a new T-shirt he just bought in the mall.
We
carefully avoid catching each othersı eye as we stroll casually from the
café to the balcony, over to the gift shop, down to the ice cream store.
Lisa, Brush, Juniper and I spend a long time standing on the curb in front
of the cops discussing where to Oeatı, until we begin to feel suspicious.
Finally we decide to move the group on, to the area by the sacred Ceiba tree
at the Northeast side of the convention center. This means looking for
people and trying to decide how to speak to them without seeming to know
them. I ask a whole lot of people for the time. Some of them even
have
watches. For a short while, there are all these little knots of people
circulating, asking each other for the time and then asking someone else
again and it must be clear, weıre sure, that something is going to happen,
but it doesnıt, yet.
Juniper and Lisa head down the road to look for stragglers, and Brush and I
head back across the staircase over the road, through the alley and the
plaza, across the parking lot and behind the barricades to our sacred tree,
where weıve decided to form the group up. But no one else is there.
Brush
walks up to talk to a group of people, one of whom turns out to be some kind
of security guard, but very sweet and helpful, trying to give us directions
and ask us where we are going. "Where do you recommend?" I ask,
but he
doesnıt know the English word and we are still pretending for some reason
not to speak Spanish, and we meanwhile out of the corner of my eye Iım
looking for others and nobody turns up, We are closer and closer to the
time the action is supposed to start, and I realize we have made a big
mistake trying to move the group, that they are all probably trying to find
their way around the barriers and are now scattered. We are right by our
sacred tree and I go over and touch it for strength and comfort, feeling
sick at heart. I go sit down, close my eyes, and visualize a circle
spinning itself around all the action and the activists, bringing us
together, weaving us into a whole. But more and more time is passing, and
Brush and I are still alone. We call Lisa, who says sheıs on her way.
I see Luis stroll up and a few others a taxi. Elizabeth comes up to tell
us
that Rio says the location has been
changed back to the Hard Rock Café. I feel sick. Itıs two minutes
to
action time, I donıt know where everyone is, I donıt know where everyone is
supposed to be or where Iım supposed to be, or what to do.
And then, a little way up the street, five people come out into the road and
form a line. The cars stop. We begin strolling, then striding, then
running up to them. We skirt the barricades and take the road. A
security
guard tries to stop us and we weave past, stand behind the students, and
begin to form a circle. Out of nowhere, others start to join us. Some
sit
down with the students, others join in the circle. I whip my drum out of the
black bag thatıs covered it, and we begin to sing and spiral. Two
big
busses and a mass of cars are stopped behind the students and the
internationals on the front line with them. The circle grows bigger and
the
line grows longer and we spiral and sing, while the news media begins to
gather.
"We are the rising of the moon,
We are the shifting of the ground,
We are the seed that takes root,
When we bring the fortress downS"
Now the news media are out in force, their big cameras in our faces, and
crowds have gathered on the bridge and the sidewalk behind the fences. We
keep dancing. The traffic is in the most glorious chaos, The
convention
center is in between two roads that split into a circle here on the point of
the island, and a group peels off and goes over to blockade the second road.
We start to see cops massed in front of us and hear rumors that others are
behind us, but we just keep dancing.
And then suddenly our Green Bloc friends appear. Erik and John Henry
come
up through the police lines carrying two trees, a banana and an almond.
They place them next to our spiral, and we move the spiral over to circle
them. They become the heart of the dance, as the rest of the affinity
group
begins to make an ofrenda around them of corn and beans and grain, arranged
in a spiral. The convention center looms up directly behind us: the
fortress of power, and we have entered in behind the lines and brought the
trees of life and the sacred seeds. The dance grows, and goes on and on
until we are dripping wet in the sticky heat, and the sun goes down, and in
the falling dark we raise a clear, beautiful tone like a sweet trumpet blast
that can blow the walls of power down.
"Somos el viento que sopla,
Al imperio que colapsa.."
The students are chanting political chants in Spanish and the rhythms
mesh. The police have still not moved in, and now the circle grows even
bigger, so we begin to sing again and start a new, slower spiral.
"No army can hold back a thought,
No fence can chain the sea,
The earth can not be sold or bought,
All life shall be freeS"
One of the Mexican delegates comes up to Rodrigo. "You know
what," he
says, "Iıve been in those meetings for three days, and youıre right, they
are bullshit. My boss will probably fire me tomorrow, but I donıt
care."
He joins in the spiral dance,.
Our friends who have credentials from NGOs or media are now feeding us
information. Behind the wall, riot cops are massed. Down the street,
they
are putting up barricades. Brush, Juniper and Lisa go out to scout, and
call back to give us updates. Our group gathers for a quick conference.
"If you want to be sure to get out, get out now," is the advice.
Some
leave, but most of us stay. The students are asking for our solidarity,
and
while none of us want to get arrested we just canıt leave. This is a
powerful moment of nonviolent direct action, completely peaceful, completely
disruptive, and I am not going to walk away in the middle of it, whatever
the consequences.
We begin to group up and meet. The students link up in the road, and begin
to discuss what to do. Now weıre having an assembly in the road, a
demonstration of democratic decision making right under the walls of the
closed, autocratic meetings of the WTO. Valerie and Emily are both
translating and facilitating, and doing an awesome job. We send
negotiators
to talk to the government and the police. They come back saying that if we
leave voluntarily, we can go free. We decide to stay longer. They
offer us
busses to take us away. We demand to be allowed to march. Juniper,
Lisa
and Brush have been trapped on the other side of the barricades, and keep
calling in, Lori Wallach, one of the policy experts on the WTO from the
NGOs, comes over and passes on advice from the press. Maude Barlowe from
the Council of Canadians is trapped on the other side of the fence, wishing
she could get through to join us. The discussions take a long time. Luke,
who has been one of the major movers of this action, makes a stirring speech
from the front line about the wisdom of saying enough is enough, and getting
on with the next dayıs organizing. We continue to discuss, but finally
agree to get on the busses, with media accompanying us to make sure they go
where they are supposed to go.
We ride back to Cancun in a triumphal procession. The students pop
through the skylights of the bus, and ride on the top, terrifying me more
than the threat of riot cops. But they hang on, and we sing and chant and
cheer through the long ride back around the lagoon and back up from the
airport.
We arrive at Ground Zero to cheers of joy. The students are dancing
on
top of the busses, the Koreans and all the supporters are drumming and
cheering and laughing. I get out and give Gloria a big, big hug. Many
of
the students who did this action were in the encampments with her and Lisa
and me, and we are very, very proud of them. Everyone is hugging each
other
and laughing and crying tears of pure joy. I can hardly remember when else
Iıve felt such pure, unadulterated happiness we shut the meeting down. It
has all been worth it exhaustion and the sleeplessness, the fifty hours of
meetings, the grueling
work, the moments of frustration and near despair. We have shown
that all
their police power and weapons and barricades and fear mongering cannot,
after all, keep us out, that the voice of a determined people is a force to
be reckoned with, that we cannot be left out of their equations or excluded
from their deliberations, that there is a power stronger than force or fear.
One of the Koreans begins beating a rhythm on his metal drum, comes over
to me and motions that I should join him with my drum. We begin drumming
together, and the Koreans begin dancing. They are wearing circular straw
hats against the rain, and their matching beige vests emblazoned "No WTO",
and they hold out their arms, waving them gracefully like the wings of
leaping cranes as they rock from foot to foot. The students join in, and
the rain comes down like a benediction. I pass my drum to one of the
students, ,and we are a perfect multicultural mesh of Korean gongs and latin
rhythms and sweating human bodies, dancing in the rain with complete,
abandoned joy.
At the end of the dance, the Koreans form up in the circle and sing a
Korean song and dance together. Then they motion to me that I should drum
and we should sing. The Pagans form a circle and begin our song, and
others
join and we do another spiral under the moonlight, that gathers in all the
energy and joy of our victory and raises it up in a pure release of power.
In the silence after, I drop to the ground and put my hands on the earth.
In many places, Iıve felt that this gesture of grounding embarrasses people,
feels too conventionally religious. But here it is perfectly understood.
We all touch the earth, blessing the Mother Earth, the Madre Tierra. The
Koreans crouch in a deep bow. I offer gratitude to earth and wind and sky,
to fire and rain and the moon and the courage in the hearts of all of our
companeras and companeros who have brought us this moment of victory.
Then the Koreans lead us over to the altar for Lee, which is covered with
flowers and wreaths and banners and candles. We offer prayers and songs,
and light candles. As each person places their candles, we sing a Celtic
lament. When we end, the stillness is profound, and potent, like a
hovering
indrawn breath in the midst of the labor that will bring a new world to
birth.
Starhawk
www.starhawk.org
(I've been posting daily updates there and at www.utne.com)