streets?—Our
streets! The cops turned and it was game on. They charged the front-line, of anarchists
mostly. (There’d been stories earlier that these guys were throwing paper bags of
shit at the cops near the King Street entrance: this was revenge.) The cops beat
a wedge through the anarchists but soon found themselves surrounded. The world is
watching! The world is watching! I got to my feet and made it to the footpath, away
from the action. My head was throbbing, I’d bitten my tongue, I’d lost my hat somewhere
in the scuffle. I saw it lying in a puddle in the middle of the road—but then I heard
the hooves.
Time slowed down and sped up. The crowd scattered, the mounted police cleared a path
to the bus and behind them came more reinforcements on foot. The lane was cleared,
everyone was pushed back to the footpath and beyond. Protesters were running down
laneways, cowering in doorways, falling back towards the river. People were bleeding,
screaming. The cops on horses ringed the bus while a cordon on foot ushered the delegates
out. I remember one businessman shouting over their heads at us: You fucking scum!
The bus started up, the cordon tightened, and with the delegates looking out at us—safari
tourists inspecting the animals—it drove off down the lane. The cops closed in and
swallowed it up and the whole circus moved off to Spencer Street and from there,
presumably, towards the main blockade.
I hung around in the lane for a while; most of the others had chased the cops and
the bus. Someone who’d seen me get punched asked was I all right and did I need medical
attention or want to sign a statement. I said no, I was fine, thanks. The few who
were left started drifting away. Then I remembered my hat, lying in the puddle. But
it was gone. I heard the girl’s voice behind me, the girl whose arm had been linked
in mine. I picked it up, she said, but I couldn’t find you. She held it out; I took
it from her.
Are you okay? I asked. She nodded. And you? Yeah, I said. She had a friend with her,
older than her but younger than me, soft-faced, good-looking, a real sincerity about
him. She told him who I was, what had happened. I’m Jordan, he said, and he shook
my hand. And I’m Rani, she said. She looked at me, then her eyes clouded over. Is
it worth it? she said. Yes, I said, I think so, yes.
Well, continued Aiden, of course I felt like a hero. Why not? I was jumpy, I remember,
I couldn’t settle down. I stayed around the blockade the rest of that day and came
back again the next. No-one was getting in or out. Then, before dawn on Monday morning,
everything changed again. The riot guys arrived, batons flailing, and attacked the
least-protected Queen Street entrance. The protesters, still half-asleep, didn’t
stand a chance. The cops came in over the top like sheepdogs, bashing as they went.
The horses followed behind. After that came the buses, with the faces inside. It
was all over in minutes.
For days the airwaves were filled with suggestions about what to do with us scum
now that we’d been vanquished—stick our heads on pikes at the city gates, and worse.
We melted back into what we’d been doing, which, true, in a fair few cases, probably
wasn’t much. But I’m sure everyone felt the same, that something had started and
was gathering momentum, not just here but everywhere; that it was not just a handful
of ferals screaming for change but all kinds of people, like on the blockade, like
those who linked arms around the bus, people who had never got off their arses before
now getting out and being seen. They’d been name-called and demeaned so many times
over the years, by politicians, shock jocks, the patriotic plebs, and now they were
standing up. It’s one of the bravest things you can do as a human being, isn’t it?
Refuse to be belittled.
There were more protests that year and into the next: Prague, Davos, Salzburg, Genoa.
I got even more heavily involved with all this underground political
streets! The cops turned and it was game on. They charged the front-line, of anarchists
mostly. (There’d been stories earlier that these guys were throwing paper bags of
shit at the cops near the King Street entrance: this was revenge.) The cops beat
a wedge through the anarchists but soon found themselves surrounded. The world is
watching! The world is watching! I got to my feet and made it to the footpath, away
from the action. My head was throbbing, I’d bitten my tongue, I’d lost my hat somewhere
in the scuffle. I saw it lying in a puddle in the middle of the road—but then I heard
the hooves.
Time slowed down and sped up. The crowd scattered, the mounted police cleared a path
to the bus and behind them came more reinforcements on foot. The lane was cleared,
everyone was pushed back to the footpath and beyond. Protesters were running down
laneways, cowering in doorways, falling back towards the river. People were bleeding,
screaming. The cops on horses ringed the bus while a cordon on foot ushered the delegates
out. I remember one businessman shouting over their heads at us: You fucking scum!
The bus started up, the cordon tightened, and with the delegates looking out at us—safari
tourists inspecting the animals—it drove off down the lane. The cops closed in and
swallowed it up and the whole circus moved off to Spencer Street and from there,
presumably, towards the main blockade.
I hung around in the lane for a while; most of the others had chased the cops and
the bus. Someone who’d seen me get punched asked was I all right and did I need medical
attention or want to sign a statement. I said no, I was fine, thanks. The few who
were left started drifting away. Then I remembered my hat, lying in the puddle. But
it was gone. I heard the girl’s voice behind me, the girl whose arm had been linked
in mine. I picked it up, she said, but I couldn’t find you. She held it out; I took
it from her.
Are you okay? I asked. She nodded. And you? Yeah, I said. She had a friend with her,
older than her but younger than me, soft-faced, good-looking, a real sincerity about
him. She told him who I was, what had happened. I’m Jordan, he said, and he shook
my hand. And I’m Rani, she said. She looked at me, then her eyes clouded over. Is
it worth it? she said. Yes, I said, I think so, yes.
Well, continued Aiden, of course I felt like a hero. Why not? I was jumpy, I remember,
I couldn’t settle down. I stayed around the blockade the rest of that day and came
back again the next. No-one was getting in or out. Then, before dawn on Monday morning,
everything changed again. The riot guys arrived, batons flailing, and attacked the
least-protected Queen Street entrance. The protesters, still half-asleep, didn’t
stand a chance. The cops came in over the top like sheepdogs, bashing as they went.
The horses followed behind. After that came the buses, with the faces inside. It
was all over in minutes.
For days the airwaves were filled with suggestions about what to do with us scum
now that we’d been vanquished—stick our heads on pikes at the city gates, and worse.
We melted back into what we’d been doing, which, true, in a fair few cases, probably
wasn’t much. But I’m sure everyone felt the same, that something had started and
was gathering momentum, not just here but everywhere; that it was not just a handful
of ferals screaming for change but all kinds of people, like on the blockade, like
those who linked arms around the bus, people who had never got off their arses before
now getting out and being seen. They’d been name-called and demeaned so many times
over the years, by politicians, shock jocks, the patriotic plebs, and now they were
standing up. It’s one of the bravest things you can do as a human being, isn’t it?
Refuse to be belittled.
There were more protests that year and into the next: Prague, Davos, Salzburg, Genoa.
I got even more heavily involved with all this underground political
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