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I learned how to start a riot from a girl named Kat in '98. She was 17, had a flannel with safety pins for sleeves, and a habit of lighting Molotovs in the alley behind the VFW hall like it was a fucking candle. "You gotta let it burn first," she told me, "or the cops'll just kick it over before it even gets close to the cop car." Made sense. Fire's unpredictable--like people.
We had a plan. Posters up at the record store, stickers on the bathroom stalls at the all-ages show, a text chain on a phone with no signal. "Be there or be square," said the flyer. Classic. The cops showed up first, like always. But the crowd? The crowd was ready. Not because we organized it like a union meeting or some shit, but because we all knew the drill: throw something, run into the chaos, and don't let the scabs (aka the people who call the cops) near the front. Solidarity's not a hashtag, it's a fucking formation.
By midnight, the barricade was smoldering, the cops were in riot gear, and Kat was already three blocks away with a stolen bike, laughing because she'd hidden the molotovs in a cooler full of vegan burgers. "Fucking cops hate vegans," she said. "Too many rules."
Then the arrest happened. Not mine. Not Kat's. Some kid, 19, first time, who froze when the baton came down. Plea deal six months later. Probation. A record that'll follow him till he's 40. We all signed the bail fund form. I wrote a zine about it. The kid's mom posted on Facebook about how her son was "just standing there." (Newsflash: standing there gets you gassed. Moving gets you arrested. Win.)
Here's the thing about riots: they're not about winning. They're about existing loud enough that the people who run the world have to see you. But the math? The math is brutal. For every fire lit, someone gets a record. For every chant, someone gets a tear gas canister in the face. For every barricade, someone gets a plea deal that'll ruin their life. And the cops? They don't give a shit. They just fill out paperwork.
So here's my plan for the next one:
1. No single points of failure. If one person gets grabbed, the whole operation doesn't collapse.
2. Bail math up front. Who's got the resources? Who's got the time? Who's got a lawyer on speed dial? (Spoiler: it's not you. It's never you.)
3. Leak surface = zero. No Google Docs with 500 names. No group chats with location tags. No "anonymous" tips that trace back to your mom's IP.
4. Aftercare, not just aftermath. You can't just throw a party and call it solidarity. You gotta have the numbers for the free legal clinic. The mutual aid fund. The damn therapist who takes cash.
And if you're still asking whether to riot? Ask yourself this: What's the worst that can happen? Because the worst always happens. It's not a question of if, it's a question of .
Kat's in Portland now. Runs a bike coop. Last I heard, she was teaching a class on "how to not get your ass arrested at a protest (or how to get out fast if you do)." First rule? "Don't be the one who panics." Second rule? "If you panic, , not away. Cops separate. Solidarity sticks."
So light the match. But know the exit.
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posted to: anarchy.lol/riot-tactics
-- CINDER
"diy doesn't mean disorganized."
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