We must always remember our own, or the other side will airbrush them out of history, and we are the poorer.
Over the last couple of days the strangest thought has plagued me.
Two simple ugly words have kept emerging, only for me to lock them out
and ridicule them as bizarre. Simon’s dead. Just to write it down
feels like treachery. Part of me looks forward to seeing him, to
sharing a drink and dispelling this nonsense. He’d say something wry,
and witty and that would be that. He was good like that. Was.
Sometimes the shittiest word to ever have to use about a friend.
As
part of a (temporary, and self-imposed) exile from all politics, I
didn’t know his health had deteriorated so much. We weren’t the kind of
friends who lived out of each other’s pockets. There are many who were
closer to him than me and I wish them all my love. But for almost 15
years he was always there. At crap protests and good ones, festivals
and parties, we’d find each other and we’d usually end up drinking
together. We shared a love of getting proper twatted and so we did that
a lot.
The London anarchist movement would have looked very
different without Simon Chapman. From the Movement Against The Monarchy
to the Wombles, to May Day, several squatted social centres and finally
Class War, Simon was an active presence both on the streets and behind
the scenes. Countless flyers were produced by him over the years. He
helped organise dozens of gigs, parties, campaigns and demonstrations
and I was lucky enough to work with him on several of them. Up until
very recently he was still updating the Class War website.
It
was the streets where his heart lay though and he was no passive
peaceful protester. He got nicked all the time when he was younger. He
fucking hated capitalism, was never afraid to get his hands dirty and
despised the police. And he had good reason.
In 2003 Simon was
arrested during a vicious police tear gas attack at a particularly
fruity anti-capitalist protest in Thessaloniki, Greece. It was claimed
he was carrying petrol bombs in his rucksack and he was held on remand
with charges hanging over him that could have seen him spend the next 20
years in prison. Six other people were arrested and charged in similar
circumstances. All denied the allegations against them. Photographic
evidence soon emerged that showed the rucksack the police claimed Simon
was carrying was not the rucksack he was arrested with. It was a
transparent fit up.
The treatment of those arrested was obscene.
All were beaten savagely following their arrest. For the first few days
of his incarceration Simon was left virtually blind after the police
smashed his glasses. He couldn’t see a fucking thing without his
glasses. Despite these abuses the UK’s Labour government did not lift a
finger to help. Neither did any other state. So the prisoners took the
only action left available to them and began a hunger strike.
A militant Europe-wide campaign
fast emerged demanding that all seven prisoners be released. Greek
embassies were picketed across the continent and in some cases attacked
and occupied. In Barcelona the Metro system was shut down during an
international day of action in solidarity with the prisoners. In the UK
a relentless campaign targeted the Greek Embassy and Tourist Board.
Parts of Athen’s University were repeatedly occupied, whilst fierce
demonstrations throughout Greece resulted in more arrests.
In the
end Simon didn’t eat for almost seven weeks. All the hunger-strikers
were repeatedly hospitalised, such was the strain on their health. In
the final days the prisoners stopped accepting fluids. By now the
solidarity campaign was at fever pitch as the risk that someone might
die grew ever closer. Mainstream media across Europe began to take an
interest, lured by sensationalism and smelling blood. Faced with
international embarrassment, and concerned about creating seven martyrs
who would shine a light on the corrupt Greek police, all the prisoners were released on November 6th 2003 and the charges against them dropped. Simon came home.
Then,
five years later, the bastards came for him again. After repeated
appeals from the Greek state prosecutor the charges against four of the
original seven were re-instated. In 2008 Simon was found guilty of a
string of exotic sounding and terrifying charges including Distinguished
Riot and the creation, possession and explosion of bombs. He was
sentenced in his absence to eight and a half years in prison.
Under
the threat of a European Police Warrant, which was likely to see him
dragged from his home by our own filth and handed over to the Greek
authorities, Simon was forced to return to Thessaloniki in 2010 to
appeal the conviction. In the ensuing trial the police evidence was
repeatedly demolished by the defence teams. The case ended in
humiliation for the Prosecutor with all charges thrown out for all four
defendants except for a hastily cobbled together guilty verdict of
“minor defiance of authority”. This misdemeanor was enough to justify
the time those accused had spent in prison, although the six month
sentence was suspended and Simon once again returned home.
Simon
was much, much more than just one of the Thessaloniki Seven. But I
suspect none who knew him well would deny the shadow these events cast
over his life, and the impact they had on his health. Of course our own
state also put the boot in, subjecting him to years of benefit cuts,
Atos assessments and at the mercy of London’s fucked private sector
rental market.
Throughout all this Simon stayed strong, never
stopping fighting, or laughing and never losing his faith that a better
world would one day be possible. He was kind, and clever and both
ruefully cynical and enthusiastically hopeful at the same time. He was
also more than just an anarchist. As well as raising his fist, he also
raised his daughter who he regularly spoke of with loving pride*. His
loss will leave a big hole in many lives. The last thing he would want
is tears, but he will get them.
For myself, if you find me
hassling you to come and find an off-licence with me at some boring,
stale protest then sorry, but it’s because Simon isn’t there anymore.
And those are hard words to write, to accept as real. I will fucking
miss you mate. I’m sorry I didn’t see you whilst you were so sick but
glad my last memories of you are happy ones. At least the bastards will
never take you alive again. Rest well Simon, you deserve it. Love and
rage.
Johnny Void x
Visit ann arky's home at
www.radicalglasgow.me.uk
