The Free Space – December, 1999

It hadn’t occurred to me what we would do upon arriving in Seattle, or where we would stay. Thankfully, someone else had. Our accommodations turned out to be better than expected, the details of which will be available in my book (ETA: early 2015). We called it the Not Squat. Or something like that. Enough on that for now.

After settling in, we made our way to what I recall being referred to as the Free Space. The Free Space was a large commercial building on a hill that activists were using as a gathering space to make plans, hold workshops, provide free meals soup kitchen-style, and otherwise congregate. The walls were plastered with large posters that included images ranging in diversity from Che Guavara to the American Indian Movement. The anarchist’s symbol – an “A” within a circle – seemed to be on display everywhere. Whatever one’s political philosophy was, one could find a like-mined soul somewhere within the space.

I had never before found myself in the company of so many activists like me and my Free State comrades. It turns out that there were many other Free Space-like bases throughout Seattle, each of which had its own flavor. One was the home of the save-the-sea-turtles folks and other environmentally-minded activists. Another housed the puppet makers. Then there was the Independent Media space, where journalists committed to providing an alternative take of the pending WTO protests were setting up shop. I’m sure that there were plenty more spaces, as more than 100,000 activists would be converging on the city about a week later.

The Free State – November, 1999

The Free State occupied several acres of land, some of it wooded, and at least 2 activists stood guard at its perimeter at all times. Tepees, tents, and makeshift structures littered the landscape. I pitched my 2-person tent in a wooded area and did my best to make it homelike, which is rather tough to do when you consider that its dimensions are quite small.

After setting up shop, I made my way back to the Star Lodge, where I met more Carhart-clad, unshowered, and dreadlocked activists. After a few preliminary introductions, I spotted Tree, who then brought me to the most sacred place within the camp: the four oak trees planted in alignment with the four directions way back in the 1800s. In the center was a sacred fire where women on “their moon” (read: menstruating) were not permitted to be. All others were encouraged to make offerings of tobacco, however, which I did. A sign near the fire proclaimed of the government’s violation of a treaty it had entered into with the Mendota many years earlier.

I asked Tree about an odd-looking domed structure tucked off to the side near some bushes. It turned out that it was a sweat lodge and that non-natives were invited to participate in many of the ceremonies that were led by an American Indian elder. To say that I was excited about the prospect of sweating profusely with a bunch of un-showered activists packed as tightly as sardines for a couple of hours is an understatement…

It wouldn’t be long until I had my first of several opportunities to take part in a sweat.

The four sacred oak trees and a tepee