Tales from the Encampment

Everything in this article is from my memory. Names have been removed or redacted to preserve the identities of those that participated in the struggle.

I remember waking up quite late on day one. I had recently left my job in preparation for college and had developed a bad habit of sleeping in. My phone delivered exhilarating news: Princeton Israeli Apartheid Divestment (PIAD) had launched an encampment on campus and was demanding the university’s divestment from Israel. I had been following the Columbia encampment very closely, finding their example inspiring, and was elated to be able to participate. Having grown up in Princeton, I found the lack of politics on campus to be strange. The last major protests were organized in support of the 2020 Black Lives Matter movement and against the University’s out-of-date Woodrow Wilson theming. I quickly dressed, not knowing what to expect. 

Over the next few days, I encountered a community of kind and intelligent people, equipped with a moral compass strong enough to sacrifice anything in support of their cause. Chris Hedges, a former New York Times war reporter, gave impassioned speeches that lit a fire under the belly of the protestors. Professors voiced their support to the students, demanding that the Princeton Department of Public Safety drop charges on those who had been arrested. I quickly found my place in food distribution, staffing the tables from 12pm to 4am every night. I threw myself fully into this role, recovering the sense of purpose I had been missing since leaving my job. Over time I became enmeshed in the community, befriending many of the leaders of the organization. Little did I know, they would soon be making a great sacrifice for the movement. 

Since the beginning we had been confined away to a small corner of the campus called McCosh yard, where the administration could safely ignore us. While we certainly made a lot of noise and required the University to bring on more security, our position was a far cry from the Columbia encampment, which had occupied the main lawn of the campus and demanded far more attention. 

I had finished my night shift around 4am, waking up the next morning terribly tired, my alarm a constant barrage of notifications. Thirteen leaders of PIAD had set up camp in Clio Hall, armed with a megaphone and a list of demands. I was shocked; the hall is an opulent marble administration building right in the heart of campus. I quickly cycled over, dodging pedestrians and running red lights, finding myself in front of beautiful chaos. Hundreds swarmed the bright white building, the hazy sun shading everything a warm orange. Spotting my co-volunteer handing out water, I launched into action, distributing water as widely as I could. 

The fervor and fury grew. Someone beside me stuffed traffic cones in the bus’s wheel wells, ensuring that it would be going nowhere. “If you cease to surround the bus, we will let them go with an administrative summons and a court date,” announced the head of Public Safety. That was simply not good enough, we wanted a meeting with administration and amnesty. 

We turned our attention back to the building, we were not going to let them arrest anymore of our compatriots. I found myself in the back, locking arms with people I had only met just three days ago. “Quinn, are you ok to be a red,” ⏹⏹⏹ asked me. My heartbeat ticked up. Red meant significant chances of being arrested; was I willing to be arrested for my beliefs? I took stock, took a deep breath, and signed the jail support form. If I was going to protest, I was going to do it right.

I wasn’t arrested that day, negotiations stopped the full escalation of the protest, but I came very close, Princeton Police were ready to come in with buses of their own.

We had secured the release of our comrades— albeit with their ban from university property— and demonstrated the power that the encampment had. As the crowd settled, an announcement was made: “We have now taken the Cannon Green.” Up to this point we had been hidden away in a small part of the campus, where Princeton had found it convenient to contain us. But the Cannon Green, the grassland which Clio Hall sat in front of, was at the very heart of the university. They could no longer ignore us. It was also essential to the university reunions, an event that brings in thousands of dollars for Princeton in donations from alumni. A surge of people took control of the grounds and we began moving all of our supplies onto the green.

That night as we prepared for the shift, my friend made one of the most powerful speeches I have ever heard. “The media and university will have their say, they will claim that we were violent, disorderly, and whatever else. We must insist that we were peaceful. We have always been peaceful, and we will remain peaceful. But I will not accept their idea of peace” 

His voice, raw from shouting, echoed back as he poured his heart into every word. He turned down the microphone that was offered to him, shouting “I don’t need it.” His passion was so great that it inspired everyone that night to step up. The community buzzed with excitement well into the end of my shift and continued into the next day. 

The speech struck at a fundamental conundrum in Liberalism— that idealistic peace is simply a concession in the face of power. This echoed the popular protest cry “No justice no peace” that rang during the 2020 Black Lives Matter protests. Very little political action is effective without violence from one or both sides, whether it be the suppression of peaceful marches or startling revolution. As Mao Zedong wrote, “Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.” 

Clio Hall’s occupation remains as one of the greatest moments of my life; never since have I felt such a profound connection with those around me. While I had previously understood the concept of solidarity, locking arms with those around me and proclaiming our right to protest demonstrated it perfectly. My friend’s speech convinced me of the true power of oration, and it is a moment I think about often. From that point on I reaffirmed my commitment to doing the right thing, even if it is prohibited by the law. The law is made by the powerful, to protect the powerful, and oftentimes those at the top are firmly in the wrong. Whether its their commitment to protecting their property at the expense of the world, or a genocide in which they gleefully play party to.

As we packed up at the end of the semester, there was an air of disappointment— realistically not much had been achieved. The University had made gestures towards the “proper channels” for divestment, refused to drop charges, and had swatted us away. There was one moment that night that stuck out to me, that reminded me of what we had accomplished: Watching the sun slowly rise while having a long talk with some friends I had made.