Streets of San Francisco I: Bechtel
[The reminiscences that follow (or precede) are a series of forays, not unlike the tactics on the San Francisco streets on Thursday, March 20th, and are intended to convey a little of what it felt like to be there.]
After hurtling us through the submarine tube below the San Francisco Bay, BART efficiently delivered us at the first SF station, Embarcadero. We had intended to head toward the TransAmerica building, the pyramidal tower that houses the local office of the Carlyle Group. Emerging at Beale and Market streets, though, we felt drawn to the immediate activity—a flurry of sound and moving bodies—whose nucleus was the imposing edifices that compose Bechtel.
At 7 a.m. the normally deserted streets were woken by groups of 7-10 citizens moving collectively as small bands, many dressed alike in simple black with white armbands (as were we) but some in elaborate costumes. About 50 persons, blocking the main entrance to Bechtel, sat or stood behind little painted coffins. Apparent nuns of some mainstream religious order led this group in chanting the names of innocent dead—from terminal bad luck of falling under some previous aerial bombardment of U.S. taxpayer-supplied high-tech missiles or bombs.
We listened with other spectator-supporters while runners went to find toilets, bagels, plus reconnoiter coverage of various entrances to the joined buildings. Other principal doors were completely sealed by a group whose spokesperson was someone I recognized from previous volunteer work with Global Exchange. The first trickle of arriving employees found entrance through unobtrusive doors cut in the camouflage-green metallic skin of the “cube” building’s cold north face. We were surprised that we eight—all but two women and only six with the intention of performing civil disobedience—were able to get these doors immediately shut by security guards under contract to Bechtel. We stood, sat, occasionally doing jumping jacks or dancing samba to keep warm, to block a gradual accumulation of commuters from their normal workday, reportedly worth about $1 mil per minute to this Pentagon contractor.
Our amiable “convener,” my friend Karen, engaged an ethnically diverse group of Bechtel engineers and secretaries in dialogue about our rationale and purpose in being there. Of the employees Karen spoke with, it seemed the female “secretaries” were more likely to be irate about missing work while the male engineers, many spiffily but informally dressed for some Orvis-outfitted fly-fishing expedition, sported attitudes ranging from dismissive condescension to spirited defense of their foreign “development” work, replete with the benefits of nuclear-generated power. They touted the BART system we arrived on as one of their achievements.
Multinational corporations like Bechtel, which operate overseas with a large measure of impunity, evidently must still pay attention to civil liberties at home. Though the security firm tried to intimidate other demonstrators from joining us by erecting a mobile, interlocking fence and shouldering out any fence-jumpers, we soon learned they were under orders not to physically assault non-violent protesters. Bechtel must fear the bad press and liability of a lawsuit more than the monetary damage of lost productivity. Slightly heady with the power of our intentional sit-in, Karen and I sought to demonstrate our achievement by pulling open one section of fence, to permit the interflow of protesters and Bechtel employees. Livid guards rushed and shouldered us aside, replaced the fence section, and threatened to arrest us should we repeat the move. I calmly informed them we had come to Bechtel to be arrested, so that action would be no undue hardship. Yet we subsequently settled into an unspoken appreciation of the vague limits to each group’s power.
Karen was coolly explaining our position to an irate Blue Shield case manager, whose health insurance company was housed in one of the Bechtel buildings. This woman fumed that some person would not be able to get approval for a heart transplant today because of our selfish concerns. Though Karen explained how U.S. taxpayer-supplied bombs and missiles were raining “shock and awe” on innocent Iraqis as she spoke, the Blue Shield employee wasn’t impressed. After listening to her verbal barrage for quite awhile, I went over to tell her that her inability to work today was our peace action’s regrettable collateral damage—much less than fellow human beings in Iraq would be experiencing. Can I say that I wasn’t too sad when she stormed off?
Sirens periodically covered the chants and songs of protesters, while like hovering flies police and media helicopters seemed permanent fixtures in the business-district skyline. Squad cars and paddy wagons lined the opposite side of Beale when runners Olga and Marty brought word that police had begun arresting persons blockading the front and back doors. Though a number of arrests occurred, the police presence soon evaporated without effectively dislodging our seal on the Bechtel corporate headquarters. Now instead of sirens we heard the funky sounds of a makeshift jug band ambling down the street. This was followed by an antiwar contingent of the SF Bicycle Coalition. Marty told us that police were required elsewhere because SF’s main artery, Market Street, had been closed by thousands of demonstrators simultaneously sitting in at various strategic intersections; for a time even the police were unable to make headway.
At 11 a.m. when Bechtel officials sent remaining employees home for the day, our affinity group, along with many others, briefly celebrated one little victory and then headed west on Market toward our next target.
posted by Paul at 9:08 PM
