On Sunday Nov 29th I moved to my next ‘home’ in downtown Paris. I dropped off my stuff and shot out the door to join the now-illegal march at Place de la Republique. The march was illegal because the French state had used the “opportunity” of the murderous attacks on 13th Nov to institute a ban on political public gatherings of more than two people! Along with this ban came a host of fascist-like police powers, which the police quickly abused by terrorizing the innocent Muslim community with thousands of home invasions, as well as attacking dozens of climate activists.
Instead of a 400,000-person climate march, NGO’s had retreated from this state repression (a tactical mistake) and canceled the ‘official’ march, instead trying to give people alternative outlets on the 29th. I missed the “human chain”, and only saw the “march for me shoes”—a sad reminder of state oppression—as they were packed away. Over the next couple of hours I wandered round the public square, talked with a few people, made a sign (“Menace Climatique > Menace Police + Terrorisme”) and joined the short-lived, smaller “marches” that local organizers spurred into existence. These grew and grew, and shortly after 2pm the march was big enough for us to leave the square. We headed down Avenue de la Republique.
We didn’t make it far. A wall of police waited for us, armed to the teeth and itching to start pepper spraying us. I was close to the front (you can see how close in the picture above) and held up my sign to the police, so that they knew why I—and I suspect others—were marching. A few swells of courage and chanting from the protesters, and the police unleashed. It was in those moments that I first felt the pain of pepper spray, although I have not yet been sprayed directly.
After most of the crowd had retreated, a few of us remained. Some lay down, and a girl sang. I kneeled in front of the police with my sign, petrified that I’d receive a blow from behind at any moment, yet it never came. Once a hundred photos had been taken by dozens of the press, I stood back up and walked back into the public square.
It was a scene of chaos. Groups of people were around the square, and at the far end I saw dense clouds of tear gas. I hurried over, wanting to document what I was witnessing. As small groups of young people threw what little they had at heavily armoured police lines, police were attacking with overwhelming force. They shot cluster-bomb fireworks into the air, which split into half a dozen tear-gas-spewing canisters, turning huge areas of the public square into toxic zones of pain. People from many walks of life were caught in the debilitating gas—not just the protesters close to the police, but also tourists, children, and protesters who were trying to avoid police presence entirely.
Over the next couple of hours the police closed in (trampling on the flowers and candles that had been left for those killed on the 13th), eventually kettling (trapping) several hundred of us against a building, where they held us for three hours. I tried speaking with some of the protesters around me, but my limited French caused connection problems, and although they were nice, I felt pretty alone. In those moment I was very glad to have support of a friend who was outside the police lines, chatting away with me on my phone. There was also a bike trailer with a speaker, so we put some music on and had a rave in the street. Dancing helped to keep our spirits up.
Eventually the police came for us. Batons in hand, they roughly grabbed us a few at a time and ripped us apart from our fellow protesters with whom we’d linked arms. Sometimes they failed to get any of us, sometimes they succeeded. A couple of times (that I witnessed) they came in with their batons swinging, and it would surprise me if no bones were broken that day. It was harrowing to see the glee with which the police attacked us, having already dehumanized us and justified their tyranny as “just doing my job”.
Eventually I too was taken. A single police officer led me out, though he instantly softened when I said I was Canadian. He wasn’t looking to arrest me, but many arrests did happen that day—likely French climate activist that they’d had their sights on for some time (quite why the police seem to overly target climate activists is another matter). He gave me the choice of getting on the police bus (a tempting offer, to stand in solidarity with those who were being arrested), but I chose the other option: to walk away and head home to sleep—a privilege I am lucky to have.
Photo credit: Stu Basden
No comments:
Post a Comment