This is a movement. An action. Together. Divided. Peace. Hate. There is change in the air. The potent aroma of change. There are people here acting as one and then acting as sub-divisions of the one and sub-divisions of the sub-divisions. Then, finally, in the heat of battle, we act as individuals, but with a shared purpose: to run away.
I walk back down the main high street. More and more black; black scarves, black hooded tops, black balaclavas, T-shirts, trousers. Black. There are cars burning, one, then two, billowing clouds of smoke into the air. Black smoke. All along the main street, banks have been looted, bus stops trashed, garages ransacked, cars smashed. We wait. At the end of the tunnel, where the cars are being burned, I spy what turns out to be the fire brigade. I can smell trouble. “The police can’t be too far behind”, I say to Joel, an American, his face covered by a black scarf. We agree it won’t be too long. The choppers are circling us over the top and we spy a police van down a turn-off road, which essentially means only one exit now: behind us, back down the main street. The street where, earlier, I stood on top of a bus shelter for forty minutes, holding my fingers up in the air for peace; for victory. Hundreds upon thousands of people marching past chanting slogans like “Liberet Genova’, “f*** Berlusconi assa-sas-sin”, singing from time to time, stopping and cheering at the Genoese, who hang out of the houses either side of the road shouting their support. I even saw an 80-year-old women wave what looked like a scarf (red) at the crowd below and for a moment everyone seemed to turn as one and cheer and clap her. A moment of sublimeness. Of bizarre unity.
There are different groups here with flags and banners. Can’t really tell too much, but I spy a large group of students, socialist worker banners, “No Debt”, a cow with something in Italian written on it. After the procession begins to slow down, the police move in for the first time, setting off tear gas and employing a tactic they will use again: slowly moving up the street. The first time I get caught up in it I spy a guy getting beat to f*** by the five-O and leg it along with everybody else. The second time is different.
After half an hour, I start to walk back down the street of trouble and notice three things: the police have now fallen back, ceding the ground they had previously won. Two: black. Three: the streets are now completely trashed. The black bloc have been at work. I say to Joel “there’s trouble in the air”. The police are about to move for the second time. It’s just in the air, along with the black smoke. Joel and I agree. We’ve scouted all the side streets, so we know where to get out and we’re now pretty close to the front line. At first, there’s a false alarm. People run, just like bison being chased by a big cat. Almost panic. It borders on panic. The black bloc calm people down, though, saying “it’s OK, don’t run”. People stop. We wait again. And then I see, moving out front the black smoke, just like you’ve seen again and again in those war movies, where, through the haze, the distant hum of an army can be heard and then you catch the first glimpse of the uniforms and then........then I see the water-canon van and just behind that, a different black plague. All black. A day of black. The police. And there are lots of them, moving as one, in lines either side of the van, which is slowly edging forward. The people start to stampede again, but I know what the score is now. Joel and I take our time. I fall over my rucksack, walking backwards, watching the black in front of me, watching the black all around me. Then the tear gas comes, but I have my scarf. We all have scarfs. The uniform of the protestor. Multi-purpose: unity, belonging, protection. More stampeding, but Joel and I are walking now. And then it kind of hits me slowly and yet suddenly that I am now very close to the front. I have a memory of Joel walking towards me, back to the police, who are no more than fifty metres behind. Just walking, whilst mayhem begins to escalate. People are running and the police are moving forward monotonously. Then the van that heads the assault begins to accelerate towards us. I am now at the front. I am the frontline. Everybody is in black around me, in front of me, behind me. I don’t feel too much other than a vicarious thrill as it dawns on me where I am. However, this is quickly replaced by another emotion, as the police van accelerates. Time to go. Everybody runs. And the running is the real thing now. Blind panic. I look over my shoulder and the van is getting closer. Suddenly, the thought pops into my head: “ My God, if they start firing rubber bullets at us, we’re done for”. I’m not the only one who thinks this. Everybody has the same thought, evidenced by the fact that the running is now just like ants, thousands of ants, running in all different directions. I sprint. I’ve got a rucksack on my back. It hurts like hell. But I’ve got to run. I’m not looking around anymore. I know what I’ve got to do. I spy a side-street ahead. Got to make it there. I reach the side-street and I haven’t seen the van pass me. Others have the same idea. I run to the end of it and there are hundreds and hundreds of people. It’s safe-ish here. I think the police just wanted to push everybody off the main street. I don’t look around and I’ve lost Joel. However, up ahead is the main meeting point for all the buses and I aim for that, absolutely knackered, strangely exhilarated, my head in a spin, my heart hurting, sweat ripping off me - trying to take what’s just happened in. But it’s too much.
What is going on? Two hours ago, I felt peace. I saw peace. I felt love. Yes, love. But now only fear. Is this the juxtaposition that the movement faces? It has been a day of dichotomies. A day of unity. A day of division. A day of love. A day of hate. A day of peace. A day of violence. But most of all. A day of black.