Charles W. Sasser

Both fascinated and horrified, I did three days and nights as an undercover journalist in Manhattan’s Zuccotti Park in 2011 and witnessed Occupy Wall Street’s birthing of Antifa, its love affair with socialism, and the beginning of national chaos.

Life at Zuccotti Park, at the time an ant-like colony of tents and tarps, was like living in a crime-riddled, open-air frat house with odor, dominated by a generation whose primary characteristic is a sense of entitlement built on nearly a century of class warfare that demonizes producers for the benefit of non-producers.

They called themselves the “99 percent” who are exploited by the wealthy “1 percent.”

“Some want to reform capitalism and others, like us, are ready to scrap it,” they ranted.

“The way forward isn’t to save the system, or to mimic it, but to keep it off balance—for good,” others echoed.

A marching placard shouted: Billionaire, your time is up!

Nikita proved more honest than most when he admitted, “Some are on welfare. Many of us are desperately trying to find work, and others are avoiding work. Let’s be honest here. Work sucks.”

That small park only a few blocks from Wall Street had perhaps the highest crime rate in the nation. Rape, theft, drug dealing, assault. . . One journalist, perhaps more honest than others, called it “a scary, lawless place at night.”

A dude scurried about flapping his arms and shouting the “F” bomb at the top of his voice. A bald guy got fed up with him and socked him in the face, knocking him down.

A girl OD’d and fell unconscious. Another girl walked by in the night, weeping because she said she had been raped. A group at a table rolled joints and handed them out while police watched from the perimeter. A cop told me they were not allowed to interfere. A girl hooking up with a guy under a tarp suddenly flung herself free screaming and cursing. Police arrested a dude for urinating on a police car. Drug-slurred, senseless conversations continued all night.

Protest organizers finally secured port-a-potties. “That’s good,” said Rossi from Portland, Maine, “because it provides a place to go so people don’t pee in the streets.”

Or on police cars.

Steven, a NYC “artist” said he was protesting for more money for education. The sign he carried misspelled it as “Edukation.”

Alfred, a six-three transvestite wearing tights, lipstick, and a blonde wig was begging cash in order to travel to “Occupy Miami.” Marilyn, who said she was a teacher, bore a huge sign demanding everything FREE from housing and transportation to food and a guaranteed income.

“Who pays for it?” I asked.

She looked at me like I must be stupid. “The rich,” she snapped. “The government.”

Marches were always in the process of being organized. “We’re marching on the police precinct. Will you march with us against police brutality?”

Police arrested 20 marchers near the Manhattan Supreme Court Building after they refused to clear the street and sidewalk. Legal observers in green hats were present to document arrests or unlawful police conduct. A bevy of lawyers showed up to sue the city.

“Working groups” set up tables all over the park to make protest signs, deliver speeches, and hand out revolutionary literature. Scroungers were always congregated at the free food table.

Johnson made signs featuring the Soviet “hammer and sickle” and presenting messages such as: The Youth Will Dig Capitalism’s Grave.

Burning marijuana and the spectre of Karl Marx hovered over the park like smog. Everyone could live happily ever after, went the assertion, once all the wealth was redistributed in the name of “equality” and “social justice.” And if we don’t get what we want, we’ll tear this sucka down.

Every table had literature to hand out:

A more Marxist sense means. . .the right to have collective control over the very substance and structure of our society. . .

The anarchist dream, the Stateless state, the commune, the autonomous zone with duration, a free society, a free culture. . .The point is not to change consciousness but change the world.

The Temporary Autonomous Zone is like an uprising that does not engage directly with the State, a guerrilla operation which liberates an area and then dissolves to reform elsewhere before the State can crush it. . . It’s time for the nation to begin to hear the spooky vibrations of a home-grown and leaderless movement on the march. . .

One night I stood at the perimeter of the park to simply listen and watch. I realized I was witnessing a glimpse into a dystopian future.

For more, reading CRUSHING THE COLLECTIVE, by Charles W. Sasser. Available at Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, and most book stores.