[BAI NOTE:Last night our brother in struggle Hannibal Abdul Shakur was arrested by the Oakland Police Dept in the middle of street rebellions which started Saturday night after the acquittal of George Zimmerman, the murderer of Trayvon Martin.
Today is Assata Shakurs birthday. It is also the anniversary of the SFPD murder of Kenneth Harding.
It is also going to be another night of rebellion in Oakland as the people have made calls for a gathering at 9pm at Oscar Grant Plaza.
In an instant everything has become connected.
We are asking those who know him and those who don’t to dig deep and donate to his case and help avoid complications in his battle against Cancer. The following is a piece written by Hannibal Abdul Shakur. Raw and unapologetic the piece speaks to the anger we’ve see in the streets over the past few days and nights.
PLEASE DONATE TO THE TRAYVON 2: GO FUND ME]
Oakland, CA: reposted from Unflinching Antagonisms:
“Black brothers, Black sisters, i want you to know that i love you and i hope that somewhere in your hearts you have love for me. My name is Assata Shakur (slave name joanne chesimard), and i am a revolutionary. A Black revolutionary. By that i mean that i have declared war on all forces that have raped our women, castrated our men, and kept our babies empty-bellied. I have declared war on the rich who prosper on our poverty, the politicians who lie to us with smiling faces, and all the mindless, heart-less robots that protect them and their property.” –Assata Shakur
“I was born into the flames of slave insurrection. My first recorded ancestor was a runaway slave named Felix. In between him and me have been several butchered half lives. My grandfather, the oldest ancestor I’ve had the pleasure and privilege to interact with, was, as a young man, captured and tortured with “electro-shock therapy” for months on end as a consequence of his very material defiance and resistance to this “constitutional violence” that Wilderson describes in “the vengeance of vertigo”. As a result he was introduced to this “performative contingent violence” forever carving into our family tree the scars of his/our subjugation. In the same way that many families pass down the stories of how grandparents met and the idiosyncrasies of ancestors long past, I was passed a narrative, a framework for my own identity, of pure unflinching antagonism. I can only imagine this is part and parcel of the reason Michigan pigs pumped 40 bullets into my cousin’s chest a few months ago or why my other cousin is serving a life sentence. It’s difficult to make distinctions between Oakland and Monroe, between prison and plantation when past and present meet in these spaces and moments. What joins us, stronger than our own blood even, are the subjective and objective vertigos.