at the day peace camp by aki yamamoto August 1993. Clayoquot Sound, Vancouver Island. The Black Hole - a charred clearcut from the ‘80's, off the highway leading to Tofino and Ucluelet. 3:30 am. A few sleepy volunteers meet at the front gate by the road to begin the daily wake up call. Sometimes they sing, sometimes they drum, some- times they just yell. Today it’s Tim on tne accordion playing, among other early morning tunes, Roll Out the Barrel. If your tent is pitched up on the hill, the chorus eases gently into your consciousness, gradually gets louder, and by the time their feet go crunching by your head you are usually fully awake. Well, as fully awake as one can be at that amorphous hour. On my first morning | unzipped my tent and was immediately” stopped cold. All | could see was a vast, velvety black backdrop of sky shimmering with a zillion stars. My head cleared, my eyes opened wide - my first day at the Clayoquot Sound Peace Camp had dawned. 4:30 am. Shadowy figures dart across headlight beams, engines warm . Somehow everyone manages to fit into a vehicle, and we are soon on the road. We tum off the main highway and onto a logging road. It is a long, bumpy ride before we arrive at our destina- tion , the Kennedy River Bridge, where we hope to communicate, with as much dignity as possible, our feelings of outrage at the April 13th Harcourt decision to allow clearcut logging in Clayoquot Sound. 5:30 am. A fire is lit- for warmth, for the coffee pot, for strength. A banner bearing the words, “Protect Clayoquot” is stretched across the road. It is a beau- tiftul and peaceful walk across the bridge in the semi- darkness. Nighthawks twitter. The beat of ravens’ wings soothes. The crimson sun sends scouts up through the foggy blue-blackness. As | walk by other solitude-seeking shadows, | consider why and how | have come to be at this particular spot in the universe. A drum beats softly. We gather in a “circle” to review this moming’s blockade strategy. We sing a song or two. We wait. 6:30 am. Itis light now. There is the sound of gravel crunching . It is time for Macmillan Bloedel, and the RCMP. The big MacBlo man with the video camera approaches, film rolling. We greet the new arrivals cordially. The morning ritual is so familiar now. All faces are recorded on video, even those just watching from the sidelines. Just in case. Sometimes we sing. Sometimes we dance. Sometimes we are silent. Today someone reads a litany of past MacBlo crimes against the environment. Once the tapingis done, the man with the recording machine politely asks us to stand aside so that their trucks may pass through. We politely decline. The court injunction prohibiting the blocking of the logging road is read through a mega- phone so that it can be clearly heard by all present. We are now legally obligated to either move aside or face arrest. Those who have chosen to be arrested remain; the rest move off behind the orange lines the RCMP have marked out for the occasion. Every morning there are a few (and sometimes many) committed souls willing to take the risk, a choice that became much harder to make when the charge graduated from one of civil disobedience (indicating an action vs MacBlo, the corporation) to one of criminal contempt (indicating a very serious act vs the Crown). The arrestees are led or carried off to the bus chartered for this purpose, the road is cleared, and the logging trucks begin rolling through. It is all very orderly and generally peaceful. Since the blockades are organ- ized by the directors of the Peace Camp (the Friends of Clayoquot Sound), our actions are guided, however frustrating it can sometimes be, by the Peaceful Direct Action Code of the Camp. | watched the faces of the men in the trucks as they rumbled by. Many looked straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. Some stared down at us, their eyes full of what | saw as a mix of anger, fear and frustration. Some waved. One morning when weit candies, a few of the loggers flicked their lighters in support, and my heart glowed. | cannot blame the loggers. They, like the fishermen of the East Coast, have been led down a highway of obscured or non-existent offramps, and. they now find themselves far along what seems to be a No Through Road. Perhaps | too, if | were in their shoes, would leap at any excuse to behave as if the road kept going, despite all indications to the contrary. ‘ How did it come to this?’, | wonder. How did this gaping impasse develop between two usually reason- able, honest, law-abiding groups of human beings? As | watch the big rubber tires turn and the exhaust fumes rise up and dissipate among the treetops, | realize that this is all about something bigger, much bigger. The conflict surrounding this stand of old growth giants, as vitalas it may be, merely cracks open the window looking out (in?) to a Big Picture. This is a picture about the power of multinational corpora- tions; itis about government compliance; itis about the power of the media, and, ultimately, itis about the role and the responsibility of you and |, the consumer, the citizen, the voter. | feel small and ignorant and powerless and lazy. Sometimes | just want to crawl into a hole and disap- pear to escape the responsibility that was dealt to me the moment | was born a member of this destructive species. Butthen | look around at all the extraordinary people who surround me ...the two chefs who came for a day and stayed for over two months to run the camp kitchen; the Raging Granny who has been arrested nine times in the past for standing firm for what s1e believes in, and who shares her knowledge and expe- riences daily through the extensive civil disobedience workshops; the ex-logger who coordinates the training of the peacekeepers and nearly always ends up with the graveyard gate keeper shift (the gates of the camp require a 24 hour vigil due to very real security con- cems); the many, many others who have also sacri- ficed in some way in order to be here to stand and be counted - and | am shamed and proud and uncertain and inspired, altemately and all at the same time. The arrestees are taken to the Ucluelet jail to be processed. Their pictures are taken, and identities are duly noted. If they sign a statement promising not to block the road again, they can usually be back at the camp intime forlunch. There are two Raging Grannies who, in early July, refused to sign this piece of paper and who are still, as far as | know, locked up. They remain in holding cells, each with a bunk, a toilet, and no shoes, no pens, no privileges. They have yet to be convicted of a crime. : The rest of us pack up and head back to the camp for _ahot breakfast and perhaps, sleep. The remainder of the day is filled with “circles’(meetings which are all run by consensus), civil disobedience and peacekeep- ing workshops, and helping with the general running of the camp. As with any gathering there are the usual day at the peace camp by aki yamamoto August 1993. Clayoquot Sound, Vancouver Island. The Black Hole -a charred clearcut from the 80's, off the highway leading to Tofino and Uctuelet. 3:30 am. A few sleepy volunteers meet at the front gate by the road to begin the daily viake up call. Sometimes they sing, sometimes they drum, some- times they just yell. Today its Tim on the accordion playing, amongotherearly moming tunes, Roll Outthe Barrel. If yourtentis pitched up on the hill, he chorus. ‘eases gently into your consciousness, gradually gets louder, andby the time theirfeet go crunching by your head youare usually fully awake. Well, as fully awake as one can be at that amorphous hour. On my first moming | unzipped my tent and was immediately stopped cold. All | could see was a vast, velvety black backdrop of sky shimmering with a zillion stars. My head cleared, my eyes opened wide - my first day at the Clayoquot Sound Peace Camp had dawned 4:30 am. Shadowy figures dart across headlight beams, engines warm . Somehow everyone manages tof into a vehicle, and we are soon on the road. We tum off the main highway and onto a logging road. It is along, bumpy ride before we arrive at our destina- tion , the Kennedy River Bridge, where we hope to communicate, with as much dignity as possible, our feelings of outrage atthe April 13th Harcourt decision to allow clearcut logging in Clayoquot Sound. 5:30.am. A fires lit - for warmth, for the coffee pot, for strength. A banner bearing the words, ‘Protect Clayoquot’is stretched across the road. Itis a beau- tiful and peaceful walk across the bridge in the semi darkness. Nighthawks twitter. The beat of ravens’ wings soothes. The crimson sun sends soouts up through the foggy blue-blackness. As | wak by other solitude-seeking shadows, | consider why and how | have come to be at this particular spot in the universe. ‘Arum beats softly. We gather ina “circle” to review this moming's blockade strategy. We sing a song or two. We wait. 6:30.am. Its ight now. Thereis the sound of gravel crurching . Itis time for Macmillan Bloedel, and the RCMP. The big MacBlo man wit the video camera approaches, film rolling. We greet the new arrivals cordially. The moming ritual is so familiar now. All faces are recorded on video, even those just watching from the sidelines. Justin case. Sometimes we sing. Sometimes we dance. Sometimes we are silent. Today someone reads a litany of past MacBlo crimes against the environment. Once the taping s done, the man with the recording machine politely asks us to stand aside so that their trucks may pass through. We politely dectine. The court injunction prohibiting the blooking ofthe logging road is read through a mega- phone so thatittcan be clearly heardby all present. We are now legally obligated o either move aside or face arrest. Those who have chosen to be arrestedremain; the rest move off behind the orange lines the RCMP have marked out for the occasion. Every moming there are a few (and sometimes many) committed ‘souls willing to take the risk, a choice that became muchharderto make when the charge graduated from ‘one of civil disobedience (indicating an action vs MacBio, the corporation) to one of criminal contempt (indicating a very serious act vs the Crown). The arrestees are led or carried off to the bus chartered for this purpose, the road is cleared, and the logging trucks begin roling through. tis all very orderly and generally peaceful. Since the blockades are organ- ized by the directors of the Peace Camp (the Friends cof Clayoquot Sound), ouractions are guided, however frustrating it can sometimes be, by the Peaceful Direct ‘Action Code of the Camp. | watched the faces of the men in the trucks as they rumbledby. Many looked straightahead, avoidingeye contact. Some stared down at us, their eyes full of what | saw as a mix of anger, fear and frustration. ‘Some waved. Onemomingwhen welit candles, afew of the loggers flicked ther lighters in support, and my heart glowed. | cannot blame the loggers. They, lke the fishermen of the East Coast, have been led down highway of obscured or non-existent offramps, and they now find themselves faralong what seems to be a No Through Road. Pethiaps ! 0, i| were in their shoes, would leap at any excuse to behave as ifthe road kept going, despite allindications othe contrary. “ How did it come to this?’, | wonder. How did this gaping impasse develop between two usually reason- able, honest, law-abiding groups of human beings? As | watch the big rubber tires tum and the exhaust fumes rise up and dissipate among the treetops, | realize that this is all about something bigger, much bigger. The conflict surrounding this stand of old growth giants, as vitalasit maybe, merely cracks open the window looking out (in?) to a Big Picture. This is a picture about the power of multinational corpora- tions; tis about govemmment compliance; itis about the power of the media, and, ultimately, it is about the role and the responsibilty of you and, the consumer, the citizen, the voter. | feel small and ignorant and powerless and lazy. ‘Sometimes | ust want to craw! into a hole and disap- pear to escape the responsibility that was dealt to me the moment | was bon a member of this destructive species. Butthen |lookaroundat allthe extraordinary people who surroundme ..thetwo chefs who camefor a day and stayed for over two months to runthe camp kitchen; the Raging Granny who has been arrest2d nine times in the past for sta ding firm for what sre believes in, and who shares her knowledge and expe- riences daly through the extensive civil disobedience workshops; the ex-logger who coordinates the training of the peacekeepers and nearry always ends up with the graveyard gate keeper shit (the gates ofthe camp require a'24 hour vigil due to very real security con- coms); the many, many others who have also sacri- ficed in some way in order to be here to stand and be ‘counted - and | am shamed and proud and uncertain and inspired, altemately and allt the same time. The arrestees are taken to the Ucluelet jail to be processed. Their picturesare taken, andidentties are duly noted. If they sign a statement promising not to block the road again, they can usually be back at the campintimeforlunch. Therearetwo RagingGrannies who, in early July, refused to sign this piece of paper and who are stil, as far as | know, locked up. They remain in holding cells, each witha bunk, atolet, and ro shoes, no pens, no privileges. They have yet to be convicted of a crime. ‘The rest of us pack up and head backtothe camp for, ahotbreakfast and pethiaps, sleep. The remainder of the day is filled with ‘cicles"(meetings. which are all runby consensus), civildisobedienceandpeacekeep- ingworkshops, andhelping withthe generalrunning of the camp. As with any gathering there are the usual Ww