Saturday, July 20th, 2019

Zuccotti Farm


The Occupy Wall Street encampment at Zuccotti Park may finally be coming to an end. If it had been allowed to continue, it would have been interesting to watch the protestors turn on each other. (Thks Owen)

Derek Brown, 44, mentioned rumors circulating about both sides when he got up to address the crowd about finances.

“I want to know where the money is going,” he said. “We need not just transparency but accountability, because there are some people in the ghetto in which I live (he pointed to the western end of the camp) that are destitute and are occupying. The problem is this: We’ve heard rumors, like you guys have heard rumors about us, that the people who have structured this ‘Occupy’ site are not refunneling the money to where it needs to go concerning the people who are occupying the park. We need direct access to monetary funds … to metro cards, to laundry money.”

“I heard that some of the 99 percent are the 1 percent of the 99 percent,” he added, and to which some people started applauding. “We don’t need that.”

Old guard back in the trenches at ‘Occupy’ protests

Protesters who were feeling underrepresented began the evening meeting 15 minutes early “and voiced their opinions on how we aren’t being represented on the other half of the park,” said Cody Thies, a 19-year-old from Los Angeles.

“The people who make decisions for the (general assembly) are tourists who pass by and just come in only to say what we should do here and then leave and go back to their apartments,” he added.

Those living in the camp were particularly upset with their inability to get the assembly to approve “basic things so we can survive and not freeze in the winter,” Thies said.

George Orwell would have understood exactly what was going on.

It was just after the sheep had returned, on a pleasant evening when the animals had finished work and were making their way back to the farm buildings, that the terrified neighing of a horse sounded from the yard.

Startled, the animals stopped in their tracks. It was Clover’s voice. She neighed again, and all the animals broke into a gallop and rushed into the yard. Then they saw what Clover had seen.

It was a pig walking on his hind legs.

Yes, it was Squealer. A little awkwardly, as though not quite used to supporting his considerable bulk in that position, but with perfect balance, he was strolling across the yard. And a moment later, out from the door of the farmhouse came a long file of pigs, all walking on their hind legs. Some did it better than others, one or two were even a trifle unsteady and looked as though they would have liked the support of a stick, but every one of them made his way right round the yard successfully. And finally there was a tremendous baying of dogs and a shrill crowing from the black cockerel, and out came Napoleon himself, majestically upright, casting haughty glances from side to side, and with his dogs gambolling round him.

He carried a whip in his trotter.

There was a deadly silence. Amazed, terrified, huddling together, the animals watched the long line of pigs march slowly round the yard. It was as though the world had turned upside-down. Then there came a moment when the first shock had worn off and when, in spite of everything-in spite of their terror of the dogs, and of the habit, developed through long years, of never complaining, never criticising, no matter what happened–they
might have uttered some word of protest. But just at that moment, as though at a signal, all the sheep burst out into a tremendous bleating of–

“Four legs good, two legs BETTER! Four legs good, two legs BETTER! Four legs good, two legs BETTER!”

It went on for five minutes without stopping. And by the time the sheep had quieted down, the chance to utter any protest had passed, for the pigs had marched back into the farmhouse.

Benjamin felt a nose nuzzling at his shoulder. He looked round. It was Clover. Her old eyes looked dimmer than ever. Without saying anything, she tugged gently at his mane and led him round to the end of the big barn, where the Seven Commandments were written. For a minute or two they stood gazing at the tatted wall with its white lettering.

“My sight is failing,” she said finally. “Even when I was young I could not have read what was written there. But it appears to me that that wall looks different. Are the Seven Commandments the same as they used to be, Benjamin?”

For once Benjamin consented to break his rule, and he read out to her what was written on the wall. There was nothing there now except a single Commandment. It ran:


After that it did not seem strange when next day the pigs who were supervising the work of the farm all carried whips in their trotters. It did not seem strange to learn that the pigs had bought themselves a wireless set, were arranging to install a telephone, and had taken out subscriptions to ‘John Bull’, ‘Tit-Bits’, and the ‘Daily Mirror’. It did not seem strange when Napoleon was seen strolling in the farmhouse garden with a pipe in his mouth–no, not even when the pigs took Mr. Jones’s clothes out of the wardrobes and put them on, Napoleon himself appearing in a black coat, ratcatcher breeches, and leather leggings, while his favourite sow appeared in the watered silk dress which Mrs. Jones had been used to wearing on Sundays.

There is nothing new.

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