Translated by Riot Turtle
My conversation, my songs
my hate and my happiness
my day, my night, my forward, my backward
my sun and shadows, doubts I have
On you and in me until the last day
your streets where I flee, stumble and fall
your warmth that I need, that I feel everywhereKlaus Hoffmann – Berlin
Zickenplatz in the dark, distant memories, old stories, foolhardy nights, wild escapes, today the streets and sidewalks hang full of people, all very calm, but that’s just the concentration, the moment to gather before the jump. Then Body Count pops from the loudspeaker and everything starts moving, fast but not hectically. A crowd in black that moves through the streets. First windows shattered, that dull dong when the stone hits, that you’ve heard a thousand times before and that you’ll never forget like the sound of the sea or the breathing of the lover beside you in bed.
Somewhere the cops are running along at the side, pyros, firecrackers and stones fly around their ears. One glass pane after the other collapses, you find the old companions, as a matter of course, short hugs, you slip into your old skin, the washed-out bandana, to which you are so attached, now covers your face. Jokes among old men, the little aches and pains that are forgotten, the decayed bones that dance one more time.
At Kottbusser Bridge, a cop squad half-heartedly moves onto the road, the well-known bunch of zivil cops appear from a side street. A short moment of hesitation, a few of them get hectic, but then the cops are already taking stones again and the civil cops run back in panic into the dark side street. Kotti appears, a ring of light, you can already see the lurking riot cop squads, the usual scenario, but cheesecake, the cops are running a space protection concept, a tactical disaster, can’t move their troops fast enough. The cops and vans, which are posted at Kotti, take throwing material to the limit, somewhere more windows and upper price class cars get smashed. On Reiche then the first really big cop squad. Waits first indecisively on the sidewalk, while the front block simply moves on, the whole time stones and pyros fly, the cops then storm after a part of the front block, a part runs like crazy down the sidewalk in the direction of Kotti. The demo reorganizes itself, the cops have not caught the front block either. At O Square, the next cops units are caught, a squad flees in panic behind its group vehicle, the chic hotel on the square loses a few of its security glass windows, evening parties flee from the foyer in the face of the unveiled reality.
Slowly, the cops have regrouped their troops, after 20 minutes of complete loss of control in Oranienstrasse, now forming a line around the demo, but on the corner of Adalbert, the first groups break out again, in the direction of Köpi. A half squad chasing them, a few stones later, they stop the pursuit, visibly impressed. Alright, so trellis, but then just mood, thousands move with slogans through Oranienstrasse populated with tourists, revellers and remaining locals, the rhythmic clapping echoes back from the facades. Then tough stop and go through the dark, narrow side streets. The cops pluck at the side banners and umbrellas, but do kick up one’s heels today, visibly unnerved. the demo still registered and loud, while normally dissolved because of every little shit, they prefer to let it move today, the fear for decentralized actions must be deep-seated.
At Köpi, masses of cops and water cannons, nevertheless, from the darkness throwing against the following column of vehicles of the federal police, at some point the demo reaches Adalbertstraße again, a last stop, then the groups slowly trickle out. A few hundred people still find their way back to Oranienstrasse, where out-of-town cops are mobbed by the beer-bottle-waving crowd. The old bones start to freeze again, in Hahn  it is nice and warm from booze and love, everywhere beaming faces, many hugs, excited vibrations, a typical Friday night, until a squad of cops suddenly storms the place. Beating everything in the narrow, packed pub, where everybody stumbles and falls over each other, but still no panic and one helps each other where one can in the midst of the turmoil. Headlock punches against the head, some go down, two tow them out. Then they fuck off again. Shutters roll down, tables are pushed forward, injuries are treated. In front of the bar, a mob of cops. Old Kreuzberg history, sorted out by the exploitation process, but still with a bar stool in their hands, in case they storm again. But they don’t. Trickling out into the night, received by comrades, my skull is buzzing, but fuck it. Bury my heart at Heinrichplatz.
Out of the fog, Sebastian Lotzer, 16.10.2021
 Goldene Hahn, a bar at Heinrichplatz in Berlin’s Kreuzberg district.
taken from here