"This is what our world would look like"--Bold, colorful, and kind

My first day at Redelich was full of impressions, so full that it seems impossible to recount them all. But now, as I lay in my tent, I’ll try to list a few, last to first.

The things you hear: Right now I can hear laughter from the watchtower guards as the shifts change (the watchtower is to keep a lookout for the police) and the sound of a flute playing a medieval air, a drumbeat filling in the low notes. The sound is somewhere between a song in the Dorian mode and free jazz. As the song fades, a whistling reveller takes up the tone but not the tune, carries it on as he walks past my tent.

The things to see: A 1961 Mercedes bus converted to a solar-powered mobile media center and run by a friendly bunch of Dutchmen (that's where I'm writing from now). Girls and with eyes that shine like dark water, people working hard to make a change. People bringing their ideas to life, assuming responsibility because it feels good. An array of colors, from the clowns’ red noses to the hoodies and boots of the allegedly nefarious Black Block. The smiles of children everywhere.

The flavors: Pea soup with soy, croutons and red beet, served with cornbread fritters. The meals in general are amazing, feeding two thousand people a day for the cost of donations.

The sensations: Cold showers so refreshing you don’t miss warm water—almost. Practicing blockade maneuvers in long grass. The kindness of complete strangers.

We didn't get to camp until late last night, waiting on the platform in Rostock for over an hour for a train that didn't come, the first of what seems to be an unending barrage of attempts by the authorities to break our spirit. The train that finally came was full to bursting, people sitting two to three deep with no space to move. I'm slightly claustrophobic, and after we'd been traveling for some time, I started to get dizzy. Against the advice of my friends (and my own better judgment), I climbed over and through the masses of bodies to the next exit, hoping to get a breath of fresh air at the next stop.

My mind was already reeling from the events of the demonstration, so what I saw next nearly put me over the edge. On a bench near the door of the train, a man lay drenched in sweat, his breathing far too shallow. It became apparent that he was a casualty of the tear gas salve fired by police into the crowd. His affinity group surrounded him, touching his face, speaking to him in low tones, and trying their best to make him feel comfortable. I stood and watched, horrified to be unable to help. In what must be one of the most bizarre gestures of kindness I've ever witnessed, one of his group handed me a half-full beer, too occupied to finish it. Finally we arrived, and the man was carried out on a medic sling.

Once we got to camp, people were helpful, showing us the facilities and where to camp, and offering a hot meal for travel-weary protesters. I set up my tent, ate, and sought out the local media point.