April 7, 2010
April 7, 2010
>The police headquarters in sparti are trying to find the people involved in an attack, on thursday 1st of april, on some
cops,near a Roma site near Evrota bridge in sparta peloponisos greece.
The official announcement sais: “Police officers were attacked all of a sudden and with no reason from a large group of people
from the site, that were carrying sticks and other objects.
With the intention to stop the attack,one of the officers shot once in the air to scare them without succeding.As a result,many
police officers were injured and the officer that shot, had his gun taken away and a police car was damaged. The officers were
forced to retreat.
>Wednesday, April 7, 2010 Tory billboards re-subvertised ENGLAND
3 Tory billboards re-subvertised and others freshly vandalised in Taunton (Somerset).
Tories = rich scum, tories = homophobes, don’t vote – nobody cares were painted on them. Screwing us all was additionally put as a response to the blanked out part after but they care about… (Thanks to however set that one up!) A blank billboard got free your mind… and a supermarket billboard received don’t buy – steal. All were left with the anarchist symbol. A few slogans were also painted around the town centre including save vivary green wedge and vote nobody.
On monday 5th of april, at 7.30am, buldozers entered the area of the university in thessaloniki,and started destroying the squatted buildings WITH NO WARNING, while people were inside…
At the same time, the area was infested with undercovers and 9 riotcops vans that were going in and out taking fotographs of the demolishing of “Freeteza”,although their papers said they can only be there after the third of september..!!
Above that area were other riotcops with helmets watching everything…
All the squated buildings Freeteza,Tehtle Mehtle, Blue prokat, Panicous Maximous and Street attack are now reduced to rubble.
Luxury central London hotel damaged by fire 6/4/10
A few days ago a comrade in Lecco found unwanted guests in his car. Some nice bastard had in fact placed, linking it to the electricity supply of the light of the passenger seat, a bug made from a modified cellphone, and aerial, a Gps sensor and a microphone (see photographs). The instrument was placed between the bodywork and the inside covering, fixed by two magnets.
translated from informa-azione
>Silence, Everyone shut up.
Even if just for a second, shut up.
No more screams and dramatic descriptions of terror from you, slimy
“police editors” that feed off the blood of victims
and police information.
No more sociological analysis about everyday racism and class
contrasts, from you, filthy rich tv wisemen journalists that sterilely look at life
through the tinted windows of your bulletproof taxfree 4x4s.
No more lessons of democratic boxing from you,
the psycopath, megalomaniac minister of the paragovernment
and from you, the oppositionist irresponsible honourers of safety.
No more shows of wretched “colleague solidarity”, for every stupid thing,
from you, professional syndicalists of the
amateur police on the tabloid windows.
No more hypocrisy. Shut up all of you.
You drown reality and you don’t leave the genuine and real mourn
for a 15 year old kid that was murdered. Shut up and allow for once the
human truth, the scream for loss, to be heard.
In our garbage, the waste of our greedy consumption, which is the reason
for the slaughterhouse you call, by agreement, all you petty misanthropes,
a “democratic society”, thats where the dreams of a kid vanished.
Subproducts of the sepsis of the proud “Greek Democracy” are what
exploded in his hands, we all more or less have his blood on us, but you drink and
Shut up leeches.
Most, those who don’t have and can’t “hold” themselves, those who are the silent
majority were hurt, mad and ashamed, They bowed their head when they heard the
news and mourned for a life that didn’t get to live. They were ashamed because they
felt co-responsibility for the society they created.
All of us that see our children’s lives compressed in the meat grater,
lets make them shut up. All of us that will never segregate the value of the life of
15 year old Alexandros from the one of a 15 year old murdered immigrant, let’s make
our silence so loud that we make them shut up.
Since they don’t feel shame, they should shut up. All those shameless that dare to
sell the pieces of a body,of a 15 year old kid for a bit more money, for another step
higher in the climbing struggle with their ego as an opponent.
Let’s make them shut up since they can’t feel a moment of shame….
April 3, 2010
Someone vandalized the Portland Police union headquarters doing thousands of dollars in damage early Tuesday.
Spokesman Scott Westerman said just before 1 a.m., bricks and rocks were thrown through their windows, doing about $20,000 worth of damage to the outside of the building.
Eight people were arrested and three officers were injured Monday night when protesters clashed with police in downtown Portland in a rally against two recent officer-involved shootings.
Westerman said computers and other items were damaged inside the office.
No suspects have been named in the case.
April 3, 2010
>Who killed 15-year old Hamidullah Najafi and blinded his 11-year old sister? (or, how far is Patisia from Piazza Fontana?)
pantagruel-provocazione.blogspot.com/search/label/I know who killed chief superintendentLuigi Calabresi
I know who killed Chief Superintendent Luigi Calabresi on May 17 1972, outside his house in via Cherubini 6, in Milan, at a quarter past nine in the morning.
This is a serious statement, not due its judicial implications, for goodness sake, which I don’t give a damn about, but for quite other reasons, and these reasons are what I want to draw my readers’ attention to.
Basically, if we stop and think for a moment, what is there that we can be certain of? We get up in the morning, have a quick breakfast, rush to school, work, the nearest park to meet some friends, in a word, each towards their own daily business. In the evening we come back and lie between the sheets, nearly always the same as the evening before, which we can feel sure about the various events we have seen pass in front of our eyes during the whole day. As soon as some event takes place, no matter how simple, the coffee we had in the morning in the bar, everything surrounding it becomes confused, tends to suffocate in detail, and disappears in a non-requited desire for precision.
In the end we have a recollection of what happened, of the things we have done, but our affirmations about single events are so inadequate as to make us conclude that we cannot be sure about anything.
But how is that possible, some might say?
The answer is simple. We are only certain, always within given limits, about what we are really interested in, about what is so close to our personal feelings, needs, desires, dreams, projects that it gives us a punch in the stomach. We only remember the punches in the stomach.
In itself, life does not give us many punches in the stomach, and perhaps it is better that way.
Think what it would be like to have a life constantly lived emotionally on the edge, to the point of almost exploding, overcome by adrenaline. Some calm, please.
But because we are not beasts of burden, but men and women anxious to live this life, we tend to look at things in a more selective way. We filter the events that happen around us, not only those that we see directly with our own eyes, but also those that the great modern prostheses of newspapers and television allow us to grasp, even things that happened thousands of miles away, far off in space yet as close as if they happened in our own back yard.
We have got used to such things, but there are some that strike us more deeply.
What does it mean to be struck, moreover in depth? It means that we are left open-mouthed, with a sense of pain, anxiety, indignation, disgust, or, which is the same from the point of view of the biological mechanisms our bodies unleash, of joy, enthusiasm, intoxication, etc.
These events penetrate us and lock themselves into our certitude.
I know perfectly that there is no such thing as absolute certitude, in the sense of something objective and valid for everyone, if you want to be precise. But when the blood boils in our veins for the fifteen dead blown to pieces in the central room of the Banca dell’Agricoltura in piazza Fontana in Milan, even if a hundred years were to pass we would feel the same certainty of something contemptible, that only the miserable servants of the State could accomplish.
That is the kind of certainty I want to talk about.
Each time I think of Pinelli being thrown out of that window of Commissario Calabresi’s office in the police station in via Fatebenefratelli in Milan, the blood boils in my veins.
So I am also sure about that. A thousand legulei colluding together to explain to me the reasons of the poor police inspector surprised by the powerful jump of Pinelli to go and spin into the night air of Milan, cannot convince me. I don’t even need to read the accounts of the comrades present in the other rooms who heard the the interrogation becoming animated, and the imprecations that preceded and followed Pinelli’s murder. These testimonies add nothing to my certainty.
In the same way the court acquittals, the filial declarations of young men who have grown up in the shadow of paternal blame, or the sweaty memory of a widow for whom I have never felt any compassion take nothing from this.
A decided man, sure of himself, even caricatured in a film, but in charge of the situation. It was he who was the diamond point of the police headquarters in Milan at the time when the bombs exploded, he was the one to get busy on the events, perhaps greater than he, but he was certainly not capable of convincing hearts, in the first place concerning himself. But what correctness can a pig be capable of, moreover a pig who wants to have a career at any price?
No one talks about this person any more in concrete terms, not being able to seem a myth, at best it seems like a ghost. Passing years have drowned the personage, death seems to have flattened his characteristics in an iconography of State martyr. Poor Calabresi, 34 years old, quite a gentleman, with a pregnant wife and two little children. An apartment on the third floor of 6 via Cherubini, a modest house. After his death the wife waits almost a year to take 156.000 lire a month pension. How sad.
But poor Calabresi saw life differently. He wanted to be a winner, he played dirty, and had managed to build around himself the fame of being a hard man, invincible. He was always first on the scene, crushed all the competition, his collaborators hated him, his superiors were scared of him. Man of karate and the cult of strength, he was such a hypocrite with everyone as to manage to pass off as sentimental, practising catholic, a god-fearing man. Basically, he learned this in America, where he had been working with the CIA. An experience that few Italian supercops had had at that time.
In the febrile days following the Milan massacre everyone was scared of everyone else. For the first time t he sign of terror began to seriously penetrate the provincial, simpleton air of our country. Even the industrial city par excellence had never really known an era such as that which was about to unfold.
Why Pinelli? We don’t know, we’ll never know. It could have happened to another comrade. The attempt to throw someone down from the same window from the same Calabresi’s office had been done months before with Braschi, it could have been him to fall bouncing off the cornice. He escaped. The contest of the bombs at the Fiera of Milan were not at the same level as that of Piazza Fontana.
It was his job to knock together as best as he could the thesis of the anarchist pista, he was the specialist of the Milanese anarchists, and of the others who had relations with the Milan comrades. Who better than he could gather the threads of the
story already begun by Ventura, with the publication of the anarchist texts by a declaredly fascist publisher financed by the ministry?
Basically, the decision concerning the anarchists had already been underway for months, the proof being what happened with the bombs at the Fiera. Many comrades in prison precisely at that time. And all around, stirring things up, was poor Calabresi with his freshly pressed suit, his educated hard attitude, his culture (so to speak, but he always managed to borrow something here and there), his speed in making decisions.
Speed in decision-making. A man who had worked for the CIA could not fail to have the speed of the men of the CIA, ruthless and cold in the execution of their job. Only recent times have demolished these commonplaces, showing how the Secret Services, from the CIA to MI5, to the infamous Mossad, are nothing but a bunch of incompetent and unprepared, doted with means which at some point make them seem greater and stronger than they really are.
There, Commissario Luigi Calabresi was one of those mercenary and guaranteed assassins. Around him had grown a myth of unbeatableness, of the decisional strength that defeats all obstacles that face him.
This myth showed its first crack at the trial against ‘Lotta Continua’, where Calabresi had seemed to be in difficulty. He was accused, of having killed, or at least having participated in the murder of Pinelli, exactly what we are saying now. His stammering answers are still stuck in the minds of many comrades.
May 17 was an ill-omened day for the great Commissario. Everything seemed to be going as normal, the usual morning routine: breakfast, goodbye to the pregnant wife, the two children, one two years old the other eleven months, what a beautiful family scene.
Even the hangman has a family. It doesn’t seem possible, but it’s true. And the hangman’s family sees the hangman’s job to be like that of any civil servant, moreover one of a certain level – the hangman’s job requires specialisation that not just anyone can accomplish. Behind the mask that hides the hangman there is also room for the prolific wife and numerous offspring.
That ill-omened day, at about nine o’clock in the morning, Commissario Luigi Calabresi goes out into the street. His destiny awaits him, exactly at nine fifteen, in the form of two bullets, first one, then another.
Medical report: meningo-cerebral cranial discontinuation caused by bullets from a firearm (right occipital region).
The ambulance of via Crocebianca di Vialba screams its urgency along the city roads. At nine twentyseven Commissario Luigi Calabresi dies in Saint Carlo hospital.
The autopsy on Pinelli’s body was carried out by Professors Ludovi, Mangigli and Falzi. Who are they? I don’t know. Some ordinary bonecutters? I don’t think so, at least one of them was a man of the secret services as transpired from a marginal note published in the newspapers years later.
Why this presence? Because, once again they did not feel sure that everything had been found as it should (too many people in Calabresi’s room?) and wanted to get things over as quickly as possible, massacring in a great hurry what remained of our comrade.
One thing is certain, that if Calabresi’s work was a macabre mess (it suddenly transpired that Pinelli was wearing three shoes), that of the notomizzatori was done to perfection. After it, no counter forensic tests were possible.
Calabresi, after leaving the entrance to his house, goes towards the traffic island in the centre of the road where his wife’s Fiat 500 was parked. At both sides a Primula and an Opel. The first shot strikes him in the right shoulder, the second blows up part of his skull. The space between the 500 and the Opel slowly fills up with blood.
The people there did not realise immediately, they hardly noticed the shots. In the spring air they almost seemed like the crackling of an old car. Then someone catches sight of the face downwards body, the blood that continues to swell its purplean stain. The police, carabinieri, ambulance are called, everything that usually happens in such cases, just like an old abused script.Only this time also hasten the high echelons of the Milan police. Guida’s eyes are full of tears. The old fascist prison guard, experienced in many misdeeds and torture, is moved when he sees the body of the loyal collaborator on the ground, lying in his own blood.
‘Commissario finestra’s’ [window Commissario] funeral is sumptuous, loads of floral wreaths. The body is brought into the church. The auxiliary archbishop of Milan carries out the funeral service: ‘Shining example of dedication to duty’. It’s incredible how these people don’t have any modesty.
Cardinal Colombo, referring to a declaration by Mrs Gemma Calabresi, states, ‘The most beautiful flower to bud on the blood of the murdered Commissario is the widow’s pardon’. Incredible!
Pardon. What a magic word. We had to wait years to hear it said again, by other people, in other contexts, but always concerning Calabresi’s death.
But let’s proceed with order.
Of that morning in May someone, after many years, seems to remember something. What a splendid marvelous mechanism memory is. The memory of the pentiti [repentant terrorist], then, merits a study all to itself. In the town of Massa there is a man who sells crepes, who has a crepe stall, perhaps he also sells Coca cola and lemonade, I don’t know, anyway, he has all the air of an honest shopkeeper trying to make ends meet. Yet beneath his good-natured appearance there lurks a dangerous criminal.
Moreover, this criminal talks, tells stories, narrates what he did that morning of that 17th of May 1972 in via Cherubini, when he sat in a car waiting, waiting, waiting.
But who was he waiting for?
Our friend gives a name, then another two, accusing them of being the mandanti of Calabresi’s killing.
He was only the assistant, the chauffeur of the material author of the deed.
But come on, my dear pentito friend, is it possible that the carabinieri have only one record and that all those who accept for a song to wear the cassock of the informant always recite the same story?
The same for the little girl in the Rome trial against the anarchists (still in course in the court of assizes), among the continual ‘don’t remember’s, only repeats what he has memorised from the report prepared by the carabinieri?
There, there is something that the judges don’t know, that the pentito himself doesn’t know, and it is the fact that I know who killed Commissario Luigi Calabresi on May 17 1972, outside his house in via Cherubini 6 in Milan, at a quarter past nine in the morning. And that goes the whole hog, for ever. The pentito is only reciting a very bad script.
But, let’s notjump ahead of our time.
To wait for the Commissario in via Cherubini, was revenge.
An absolute silence welcomed Pinelli’s body on 20 December 1969 at the exit of the obituary. It was a quarter past three. It started to rain.
We went towards via Preneste.
His wife Licia had left a communiqué, ‘I earnestly desire that the funeral of Pino Pinelli, al
though open to all the friends who want to take part, come about in a decidedly private way, without the participation of organised groups, delegations or symbols’.
I don’t know why she made this declaration, certainly not for the reasons that I alone in my heart had also reached the same conclusion: symbols, banners of groups, perhaps even flags blowing in the wind, would have been out of place.
Only one black flag was to be present, in the end it turned out that there were more flags than necessary.
A wreath of flowers carried a little phrase, ‘The anarchists won’t forget you’.
I asked myself whether we would forget Pinelli, or whether that had already been done. The doubt stayed with me right to the Maggiore cemetary.
Grave 434, field 76.
There I no longer had any doubt. And, with me, the thousand comrades present had no doubt.
Calabresi must be killed.
Addio Lugano bella.
Revenge is a question of dignity. The enormity of the event must not only be commensurate to the death of Pinelli, and perhaps not even to the massacre where fifteen died and 90 were wounded. That would be a mere juridical equation, perhaps only a little more correct than that foreseen by the law books. And, in this sense, I wouldn’t be interested.
Revenge is an excess, in itself, not in the attack that it brings about. So, seeing things the other way around, the killing of Calabresi was not a comensurate revenge, comensurate to the deaths of piazza Fontana or Pinelli’s death. Even seeing things like this you fall into the juridical equation like before.
Revenge is therefore excess.
Not an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, which already in the biblical form constituted a rationalisation of preceding vindictive behaviour that was unpredictable, so a real penal code, while it seemed to most, erroneously, revenge alone.
The excess that is enclosed in revenge clears the field of any relation of equivalence. It is not revenge if it does not overflow into the immeasurable, in the barbarous cancellation of the enemy, in its elimination or, at least, in a causing him such damage as to make it impossible for him to forget.
If revenge were commensurate, it would be the social system as a whole to impose it, and there I am enclosed in a code, even unwritten, but still a code. The atmosphere would oblige me to avenge myself, following the rules, in the case of the contrary I would be badly seen and badly considered if I did not avenge myself or if I avenged myself excessively, giving damaging consequences for the environment itself.
Instead, if to solicit me to revenge was my offended dignity, it is only to that that I am responsible, and with it, therefore with the offended part of myself, with my conscience, I must come to terms.And with myself there are no half measures, I with myself constitute an indissoluble totality, I am the world, the totality of the world, and who causes offence to my dignity cancels the world, destroys me like the conscience of the world through my self, and deserves to be taken from the world.
Of course, those to grasp the deep sense of their own dignity are few. That is the profound mystery of some behaviour that seems inexplicable. Nietzsche felt offended in his dignity as a man before the spectacle of a coachman who whips his horse and not being able to resist against his own world killed by that insensitive brute, decides to cancel him from that world, to cancel his own world, to cancel himself in madness. For the same reason, other comrades, in the face of their own offended dignity cancel the world in another way, they cancel themselves in suicide.
This way of seeing life develops and ends up becoming essential, gradually one realises the absurdity of the formal rules that sanction so-called society, not to mention the laws that fix the conditions of the existence of the State. Laws and behaviour that in the long term appear to be not only instruments of the enemy to asphyxiate and render impossible that little freedom that even in a controlled and administered society it is possible to pull out, but in itself, as real twistedness, aberrant behaviour also when they seem to be the very best of intentions.
The critique of daily life produces a conscience that in time makes itself more and more acute and sensitive, always more brisk in discovering ulterior fields of desolation and isolation. All around fall that way the commonplaces of democratic possibilism, the illusions of politics, the positivity of the historical movement, the institutional concessions, the asceticism of certain recognitions. Si fa terreno bruciato, then you must decide. If one’s own conscience is capable of penetrating this crytalline field of the greatest possible clarity, if it discovers the tramethat constitutes the tissue of social relations, that subtle and almost impalpable trama that is often covered by appetising colours of the offer with which the misery of dominion disguises itself, one manages to make clear this timeless night, then one feels offended, deeply offended.
It is the offense of thousands of years of slavery and incarceration, of thousands of years of suffering and genocide, of thousands of years of submission to a few groups of dominators. Nothing of our past deserves to be saved, nothing has been given to me, and I have been able to snatch nothing from the enemy,except in the optic of one of its competitional concessions aimed at making me get to the banquet, even for a few crumbs, for some recognition of status quite marginal, for some stripes on a beret, for some bow by sly idiots who think they are the smartest.
And you can also reflect for years and years on this problem, read and reflect, until you feel tired and sad, and there is no page, no word, no gesture of man or woman near you who says anything clear, finally clear. You can row in the darkness for years, like a convict once upon a time, to exhaustion,until you fall dead on the oar without the others even noticing.
Instead, it can happen that an event illuminates you for a moment at the end of the road, that an even lets you see in filigree how the enemy is really made, what pasta it is made of, what infernal melting pot his soul has emerged from.If such an event happens, if you are there too, along with many others like you, whom you know are living the same traumatic experience, and you see them, big men with calloused hands, kids trying to be cool, mature women whose thoughts to the war years, to the trucidati sons, young people who see their love that they avert like a sign of the purity of the world, almost dirtied by so much arrogance, and you see them, all with tears in their eyes, impotent but with tensed muscles, if such an event happens with you in it, it is no longer just any event, a fact like so many others (millions of people die killed barbarously and are taken hurriedly to the cemetery), but that event has a different charge, it carries with it a tension that will not leave you be, it wakes you up in the night in a sweat and, sitting on the bed, you ask yourself what you are doing in bed, and if perhaps it’s not you who is dead and turning in the grave, while to be alive, very alive, is precisely Pinelli, with his naive beard of railway worker.
I realise that this might seem like a list of sensations felt by an exalted brain, by me who, I have to confess, that evening at the Cimitero Maggiore, grave 434, field, shamelessly burst into tears. And if, putting it that way, it is a question of memories that one feels from the emotional state of the moment, and ofte
n these exalted emotional states, not being able to express themselves at that instant in something concrete (beating up a cop, for example), translate themselves into a frustration that makes one burst into tears. And, I agree.
But by thinking that way one loses something important, reducing everything to a sum of individual people who live single feelings, one puts aside the essential thing, that exceptionally important force that comes out of many people who feel the same emotive sensation, solicited by very similar feelings (none identical, for goodness sake, I know that), feel themselves attracted one with the other to constitute a homogeneous whole that doesn’t need pacts or written contracts or dictates to constitute themselves. Suddenly, this collective force emerges and there, tangible, I can touch it, I can hear its voice, I can let myself be taken by its suggestions, address my gaze where it tells me to look, see with its eyes made of a thousand pupils what my poor short sighted eyes can’t see, remember what my poor mind alone cannot remember.
Suddenly, as if from the head of Zeus, armed to the teeth, emerges the idea of justice. But it is a very strange idea, because it doesn’t rest on any pact, no order of preference. It isn’t an idea that wants to put everything in its place, exchange Pinelli’s corpse with that of Calabresi, there are no fungible products. It’s not an idea that wants to guarantee revolutionary action , generically considered a legitimacy of continuation: what faith can the exploited have revolutionaries who let themselves be thrown out of the window like a box of old clothes without reacting.No, not even this. It’s not an idea that wants to be known, made their own by the people, so much so that there were no claims or political chatter by specific organisations of any kind, and to say that around that time there were a number of budding structures. It’s not an idea that puts itself above the others to recall to disturbed order of behaviour outside the rules, for the misdeeds committed by a certain Commissario Calabresi, after all, it is certainly not normal that someone being held at the police station be thrown out of the window during an interrogation.
If this world bases itself on calculated justice, on the numerical calculations of input and output, of a punishing for the damage done and to do damage for the injury suffered, it is a world that has nothing to do with that idea of justice that came out collectively at that moment, that evening in Cimitero Maggiore in Milan. It was there then that that evening, without anyone wanted it or knew it, that came out an idea of justice that wasn’t there before, an idea that passes over and renders laughable individual desire, the individual fantasy of shooting in the head the good Commissario Calabresi, desire and fantasy cultivated without doubt by almost the whole of those present, but like all desires and fantasies, little by little, with a return to daily life, vanished into nothing.
Instead this idea of justice (that one could define ‘proletarian’ if, as rightly has been noted,on this term had not rained the powder of thousands of years to render it unusable), that not knowing how to call we will continue to call that way, simply, justice, this idea of justice has continued its path in all of us, has held us together, comrades who have never been close to me who were present that evening there, that whom I saw again only a few times elsewhere, busied in quite other affairs, them and me, comrades for whom, let’s say it clearly, I have very little esteem for, if not rather aversion and contempt, well, for the simple fact that they were there too that evening, every time the far off voice but very lively voice of justice calls me, putting my heart in turmoil, I even go back to feeling close to these comrades.
That is why I know who killed Commissario Luigi Calabresi on May 17 1972, outside his house in via Cherubini 6, in Milan, at a quarter past nine in the morning.
These thousands, and more, comrades present at the grave 434, field 76, of the Maggiore Cemetary in Milan, all of us pulled the trigger.
No pardon. No pity.
Addio Lugano bella.
Who killed 15-year old Hamidullah Najafi and blinded his 11-year old sister? (or, how far is Patisia from Piazza Fontana?)
Three days past the deadly blast in Patisia, Athens and the mystery around the attack remains. Police and media were (very) quick to put blame on the “conspiracy of cells of fire”, even if the group issued a credible-sounding statement denying any involvement in the attack. It is important to remember that in the cases when urban guerrilla attacks have resulted in innocents’ deaths, the groups have been quick to pick blame (as happened with the 20-year old Thanos Aksarlian, an innocent passer-by killed by the group November 17, in 1992).
But then, who placed the bomb without warning, who killed 15-year old Hamidullah Najafi and (as the latest news indicate), permanently blinded his 11-year old sister?
There are two main scenaria regarding the attack. The first, much-promoted by the cops and media, is that it is either the “conspiracy cells” or another “extreme left” urban guerrilla group, whose operation went wrong and who won’t, in most likelihood, claim responsibility, due to the boy’s tragic death.
The second scenario, now slowly surfacing in the mainstream media too, is that far-right groupings might be the ones behind the attack: what happened in Patisia might be the response on the side of the far-right to the bombing of the office of the neo-nazi group “Golden Dawn” a few days ago. Should this be true, we would find ourselves faced with the Greece’s very own “strategy of tension”; Patisia might be proven to be a Greek Piazza Fontana.
As of yet, we can have no solid clues of what is going on. Yet, the horrid scenario is strengthened by the fact that, as admitted by the police, there are some similarities between the attack in Patisia and a couple of attacks that took place a little while ago in Thessaloniki against two anti-authoritarian spaces: in all three cases, the explosive material had been placed in similar metallic tubes. The difference, claim the police, is that the attacks in Thessaloniki used a detonating fuse – not a clock, as was the case in Athens. Neither of the attacks in Thessaloniki were accompanied by any communiques and it is widely believed that far-right, para-statal groups were behind them.
EARLIER TODAY THERE WAS A COMMUNIQUE CLAIMING RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE BOMB ATTACK IN PATISSIA ATHENS.
THIS COMMINIQUE HAS NO REASON TO BE PUBLISHED ON THIS WEBSITE. WE WILL NOT GIVE FASCISTS THE CHANCE TO SPEAK OR PUBLISH THEIR TEXTS.
The Thessaloniki Police bomb disposals squad neutralised explosive devices at two targets in the early hours of MOnday.
Police were alerted at 3:55 a.m. that two suspicious sacks had been spotted outside a toy store chain outlet and outside a bank in the Evosmos district.
Police neutralised the two suspicious sacks with contained explosions.
It was revealed afterwards that both sacks contained explosive mechanisms.
March 29, 2010
The past 24 hours find us in an extreme emotional antithesis…
On the one hand, great sorrow for the death of the 15-year old Afghani and the injury of his sister and on the other hand, maximum rage for the reportages of the media which totally arbitrarily and purposefully try to involve our organisation in this event. We are not usually “bothered” by the panic-ridden scenaria of the media, yet the importance of the event forces us to take a public position directly, without a connection to any attack of ours. For this reason we CLEARLY STATE THAT THE CONSPIRACY OF CELLS OF FIRE HAS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH THE EVENT IN QUESTION. We know only too well that our word against the word of the Anti-terrorist unit does not have the same exposure, since the media, in a paid mission, “photograph” and slander our organisation and our supposed involvement in the explosion in the [neighbourhood of] Patisia [, Athens].
For this reason we turn to every thinking individual, in order for them to understand the dirty game that is being set.
For all the above we declare
First – as we have already written in the communique following our attack against the National Insurance “…the time given for the evacuation of the building was set with knowledge of the number of forces held by the police in the surrounding area. In the future, depending on the geographical characteristics of each area, we will set the time frame for evacuation accordingly. Our aim is material destruction and police are always warned so that they can evacuate each area on time… “. And so, it would be inconsistent and murderously careless for us to place an explosive device in a heavily populated area, without a warning call.
Second – in the case that the phone call to the [corporate TV station] ALTER did indeed take place in the morning of the same day, it would be criminal neglect for us to “abandon” the explosive device for approximately 14 hours with the possible danger of an explosion that would have passers-by as victims. THE RISK WE TAKE AS REVOLUTIONARIES PRESUPPOSES EVEN OUR MAXIMUM PERSONAL EXPOSURE AS COUNTER-BALANCE TO THE POSSIBILITY OF AN ACCIDENT. In plain words, we would neither give a time limit of 6 minutes, knowing it is impossible for an area to be evacuated in such time, nor would we leave a device exposed without us ourselves going, with our personal exposure, to pick it up. This is also part of the claim of responsibility of our choices.
Third – it is our standard tactic , in order to avoid the malfunction of each device, to always place two clocks (and not one, as it has so far been leaked by the media) so as in the case of the malfunctioning of one of the clocks, the second one to operate instead.
Fourth – always, the warning calls that we make are to at least two institutional media in order to avoid any misunderstanding on the side of the phone operators, as well as a possible cover up of the warning call, as has happened in the past to other organisations. Also, there is always a full and detailed description not only of the target where we have placed the device but also a reference to certain roads, the size of the explosive device and the relevant advice for the evacuation and sealing off of buildings (the hotel La Mirage in Omonoia square in the case of the [neo-nazi group] Golden Dawn, the blocking off of both lanes of traffic and surrounding buildings]
Fifth – in the case of the placement of an explosive device at the house of the vice-president of the Greek-Pakistani Union in Patisia, having knowledge of the area and the mobility of migrants in the area, we gave a time limit of 20 minutes to the police and used for this reason, a low-intensity explosives (handmade black gunpowder) and not the explosive material we used at the offices of Golden Dawn or the Police Directorship for Immigrants. Also, it was no coincidence that the explosives were placed outside the storey of flats, not inside – as we wanted to avoid in any case a possible injury of the tenants. Finally, we are no judges, prosecutors or police reporters to reach easy conclusions. At the end of the day, the truth for what happened is only known by the perpetrators of the action. In the POSSIBLE CASE that the particular explosive device was placed by a Revolutionary Organisation then revolutionary dignity dictates a public claim of responsibility with the relevant self-criticism which would clear up the scene, otherwise political anonymity sabotages the revolutionary direction and “charges” an entire strategy, that of the urban guerrilla.
The conclusions are many along with the reminder that if it is really a “blind” attack then it is a very specific political tendency that finds itself to the right of the state and has a special preference for such practices (Piazza Fontana, Italy – explosive device by parstatal extreme-rightists) under certain conditions of social tension.
CONSPIRACY OF CELLS OF FIRE
GUERRILLA GROUP OF TERRORISTS