The scene is a new one, yet its repeated wherever the Western world collides with one that is perhaps incalculably old.
It’s evening time in North Dakota and a young Anarchist from out of state sits beside a bonfire. He looks at the comrades around him, primarily indigenous peoples, and breathes deeply the clean air of the plains. Stars he never sees in the city paint the night sky and the moon lights up the hills that seem to roll on forever. He can understand why these proud people want to defend this land, this soil, and fight so hard to keep the long arm of capitalism from despoiling it. With a big breath he tries to soak up as many memories, his entire body beaming with joy.
This is the revolution he was always waiting for. The one he dreamed about all those nights he stayed awake at college reading Bookchin, Kropotkin, and Emma Goldman. He begins to feel that this whole thing could be it, the final tipping point where humanity liberates itself from the oppressive chains of the State and superstition.
But as he revels in revolutionary delight a soft female voice rises from the other side of the fire. She too has come to join the protest and speaks in the tongue of her people, words our Anarchist can’t understand yet ones that cause his hairs to stand on end: