The Risks and Rewards of Reporting In a Pandemic

Why I'm spending a summer chasing autonomous protest zones across America

Outside the abandoned police precinct of the CHOP in Seattle last month (all pics by me)

I’m back in Brooklyn on the corner of Myrtle-Broadway, a rowdy intersection in the heart of Bushwick that used to feel like the center of the world, back when I was a New York nightlife journalist in the 2010s, slinking through this techno village’s dark music dens with friends and lovers on every corner. Coming back to these crossroads—the locus of gravity for a secret universe that defined my existence—always feels like falling into the arms of a familiar ex, the volatile, high-functioning one that got into drugs too hard, the one that you still think about often with a mix of concern and affection, like, “How is she?” 

Familiar squeaks and rumbles of the subway—sirens wailing in the distance—whiffs of skunky sour diesel—radios blasting bachata ballads and raunchy reggaeton. If I close my eyes, this block still sounds and smells the same. But one of the reasons why I’m here is to find out what everyone wants to know: how has the pandemic changed New York? What happens to a city built on luxury capitalism and close contact—whose entire appeal lies in being enmeshed skin-to-skin with the sweaty libidinous masses? And what will it take for New York to party again? The streets are full of darkened shops with their rails permanently pulled down, and the long lines of people are waiting for food banks instead of brunch, snaking around the block next to flower-lined memorials for the dead. As I walk five blocks to the friend’s house where I’m staying, I do not pass a single white person. Where have all the hipsters gone? 

The pared-down CHOP barricade during its final week

New York is the latest stop in my summer of chasing autonomous zones—a quest that I began at a no-cop protest zone called The CHOP in Seattle last month, and has become the most challenging and eye-opening endeavor of my career. I gave birth to this newsletter Rave New World, my pandemic baby, as a way to process the new reality of this hyper-politicized pandemic era. Strange new subcultures are fermenting in the radical protest spaces popping up across America, and leaving my house for the first time after months of lockdown, it felt like I’d emerged into a totally different world—a surreal dimension where everything still kind of looks the same, but is fraught with violence, death, and political conflict. I used to spend summers at music festivals; now I’m staying up all night at autonomous zones, watching the same kids who’d hold up festival totems at Bonnaroo now hoist protest signs outside police precincts and clean up blood from the streets. I used to analyze the role of political resistance in rave culture—now I’m doing the opposite, questioning the place of pleasure and partying in political revolution.

A sign in the CHOP’s protest garden

Along the way, I’ve learned that the mainstream media can only paint a picture in the broadest of strokes—and the reality on the ground is always much messier and more meaningful than what you read about on CNN or Twitter. The end of CHOP, for example, has been reductively interpreted by many onlookers as a cautionary tale about the need for policing after all. The truth I discovered is that autonomous zones are glimpses into a future where, even if you abolish cops, you still have to deal with entrenched gun violence, homelessness, drug addiction, toxic patriarchy and a litany of other ills that state-sanctioned violence was just a cover-up for. This newsletter has also given me the chance to experiment with new forms—in the last month, I’ve launched a podcast called On the (Alt) Media, livestreamed police protests and active shootings, shot video interviews, and even host a sober support group on Discord for my paid subscribers called CLUB SOBER. I’ve also turned writing from this newsletter into magazine features, like my piece on the CHOP’s protest art for Artforum.

An alt-left protestor who told me he flew to Rojava in Syria to fight with revolutionaries

But now I’m standing at a new crossroads, wondering if this journalistic endeavor of protest reporting during a pandemic is worth the insane amount of risk to myself and my community—and if it’s even possible to pull off with my limited resources. This is not reporting that can be done remotely, and traveling during a global health crisis is a whole new level of shitshow. A bolt of anxiety charges my every move from the moment I get into an Uber to the airport, wearing two layers of masks and safety goggles. Instead of a meal service, the air stewards give out hand sanitizers, and I try not to eat or use the bathroom for the entire flight. Once I arrive on the ground, I spend long days and nights hanging out in the protest spaces. Other news teams pop in and out for the peak action and limit their contact with sources, but my style is full immersion, because sitting in dab circles and 6am firepit conversations is the best way for me to understand the narrative I’m trying to piece together—and part of the reason why protestors don’t trust establishment media to tell their story is because none of their reporters are getting to know them like this. 

A protestor faces off with cops during the CHOP’s shutdown

Journalism is an industry based on human contact, and reporters often put themselves at risk for the sake of a story. But physical risk pre-COVID was limited to a small circle of people; now, I am reckoning with how the journalist’s instinct to run straight into the heat of a story is at odds with public health, and my reporting trips put everyone I come into contact with in danger. I took my first COVID test this week, but the seven-day lag for results in New York renders it pretty much useless. Operating as a freelance newsletter writer is also extremely precarious. Big media operations have lots of resources to cover their asses. I do not. My hustle has always depended on my wide network of supportive friends, and I’ve pulled off many reporting trips by crashing on couches and hitching rides—but those social negotiations don’t work when people’s private spaces are now sacrosanct, and many friends have sorrowfully told me that I (understandably!) can’t stay with them. If I get arrested during a protest, I could get deported because of my immigration status in Trump’s Amerikkka (I am here on a legal visa). Finally, being a woman on my own is also a bitch—as soon as night falls, strange men harass and stalk me as I try to do my job, and it often feels unsafe for me to go to these places on my own. 

CSI investigating the final shooting at the CHOP

At the same time, I know that this is essential journalism, and tracking the new culture fermenting in these radical protest spaces is key to understanding the massive paradigm shift caused by this pandemic. In the coming weeks, I will be reporting from a sit-in protest in downtown Manhattan called Occupy City Hall (recently renamed as Abolition Park) which popped up in June, with protestors demanding a $1 billion budget cut from the NYPD. I’m also planning to check out an autonomous zone in Philadelphia on the brink of being shut down by authorities this week. Both autonomous zones in New York and Philly have turned into homeless encampments, highlighting the intersecting issues of housing and class inequality in America’s growing civil war over systemic racism. The exact same scenario was playing out at Seattle’s CHOP, and complaints of property damage, drug addiction, and violence plague all of these zones. Rejecting the reductive narrative of “So I guess we need cops after all?” while attempting to understand the revolutionary potential of autonomous zones—why they’re trending as a protest strategy, and the factors behind their rise and fall—is my mission this strange summer. 

Kshama Sawant, Seattle’s only socialist city council member, speaking at a protest outside the Mayor's home earlier this month

Right now, only 3% of my readers are financially supporting this content through paid subscriptions, big womp. I know everyone has their own sob story during this global recession-meets-health-crisis, so I’m not making any demands. What I am telling you is that your financial support isn’t just buying me a cup of coffee—it’s allowing me to take a safer mode of transportation, like opting for a train to Philly instead of a crowded bus, and to pay for a hotel room instead of trying to stay up all night by myself, or walking to a seedier part of town to find a cheap motel. It’s allowing me to buy the gear I need to livestream protests, and to apply for an official press pass to reduce risk of arrest and deportation. I am putting a lot of myself on the line because I think this project is worth it, but without the resources of corporate media in place to help me mitigate risk, I have to ask my readers to help me create that infrastructure for myself, because I guess that’s what this new media model is about?

In the coming weeks, I will be taking this newsletter across autonomous protest zones across America, hopefully spanning more cities like Portland (where Trump sent in federal troops and shit is really going down right now) and Detroit (where I would love to explore the connection to rave culture’s politics of resistance in the birthplace of techno). But the only way I can pull this off is if I know ya’ll are behind me, so this is not the time to be passive. If you’d like to show support, here’s how to do it:

• Upgrade to a paying subscription—and if you’re already a subscriber (thank you!!), gift a subscription to someone who you think will enjoy this.

• Cash in through the attention economy—send this newsletter to all your cool friends, share it on social media and tag me (@michellelhooq), and click that little heart button at the top of the posts.

• While subscriptions are a more sustainable means of support, you can also make a one-time donation to my Venmo, Paypal, or CashApp ($michellelhooq).

• Respond to this email with tips for resources or words of encouragement. Right now, I’m particularly in need of activist contacts and safe housing in Portland and Philadelphia.

In return, paid subscribers get access to our private Discord chat group, where you can meet other like-minded freaks and get first access to the photos, news, and data that I will be uploading directly to that server. You’ll also get free passes to all of my future parties, including Weed Rave and Club Sober (more info about this soon), and soon, a stash of spicy content that I will release only to paid subs.

Lastly, thank you to everyone who has supported this project in any shape or form. It’s going to be a very weird summer, but at least we’re spending it together.