Demonstrations

We demonstrated in the square.

Sweating, excited, we gathered together and cried out loud. A tremendous scream was emerging from the street. A blend of whispers, cries of pain, shrieks of anger, and moans of despair echoed over the city. The words ‘freedom’ and ‘equality’ were accompanied by drums and reverberated from massive speakers, generating joyful hope, and anxiety piercing the heart like a blunt needle. We stood beside each other, felt each other’s breath, and heard our repetitive shouts shot into a cloudless sky. We sang together and waved our flags, smiling.

We weren’t always part of the demonstrations.

At first, we only heard the noise coming from the square. Echoes of strange, shrill cries, feminine and then masculine voices, rhythmic music, and sometimes the sound of groaning metal. Elderly people and families with children gathered in the square, and we only passed by on the street, looked curiously, and went on. We heard the voices and drove away. Day after day, week after week, immersed in our phones, the loud cries became the background to a sequence of photos and videos. A finger hovering over a screen, replacing one image with another as the anger shared by many crept into a space existing between people.

Not only anger.

Danger. A hint of lost freedom, something about a diversion that cannot be overdone. A choice leading to destruction. The tumult coming from the square indicated that disaster was imminent. The threat was unequivocal. Soon, life would change completely. Freedom would be taken from us, equality would disappear as if it never existed.  A massive crisis was upon us.

But we kept going to work, coming back home, going to a bar permeated with music and the scent of alcohol, ignoring the commotion on the square. On warm summer nights, we were absorbed in our flickering screens, consumed by a realm made of fluctuating images and piercing voices.

It so happened that we were recently promoted.

The company expanded, the boss smiled and offered a better position, with an option for another promotion soon. The salary increased, and the future looked promising. Various plans were born late at night: a vacation on an island surrounded by glistening sand and clear seas; skiing on snow-covered slopes that shone like glass at twilight; driving a car gliding along a curved road, and more and more. The days were full of action-boosting stamina rather than being exhausting. A strengthening effort. The nights stretched between yearning for future delights and indulging in the pleasures of the present, leaving the sound emanating from the square behind the closed windows.

But a miniscule whimper cracked the silence that surrounded us.

A very light motion, barely noticeable, broke the invisible barrier. In an obscure way, a faint movement in the baby’s bed in the next room was linked to the distant cries from the square. Somehow, through the light creak of the bed frame—nearly inaudible—the unsettling spirit of the demonstrators seeped in. The baby moved in his sleep, allowing waves of hope and despair to filter into the house.

A chubby foot stretched, a tiny hand shifted, and the babyish mouth opened in slumber. As we watched the helpless child, the yelling of the demonstrators emanated from an inner space, warning of a danger still not fully defined. What would become of him? We thought, trying in vain to fend off the fear that turned into a viscous liquid, spreading gradually in the veins and the temples. A full life expanded in our imagination, laid out before us, vulnerable to a threat that seemed alarming, though it was impossible to describe it in detail. In some unknown way, our liberty would be lost, and our life would progress along a path that could not be avoided. Since that inner shell cracked, the spirit of the square hatched and enveloped us. It was impossible to push it to a distant corner.

For long months, we stood in the square linking arms.

Together we yelled ‘freedom’ and ‘equality’ with all our might.

Together we marched in the streets, waving flags proudly.

Together we confronted cavaliers riding horses with shiny black hair.

Together we lingered in the square late at night, embracing each other in brotherhood.

But some of us disappeared.

As we marched together, some of our comrades didn’t show up. We searched the angry crowd, fearing the unknown. Dark cellars came to our minds, the sound of heavy iron doors slamming shut, sealed bags and thick ropes. We could almost hear the cries of pain. At times, the fear for the fate of our comrades turned into pain in an unknown organ.

But it turned out that cunning words had pushed them away from the square. An obscure eye was observing us, luring some with a temptation wrapped in rustling cellophane, selecting its target meticulously. An enticing dessert given only to those leaving the square. A past offer for a distinguished public position suddenly resurfaced, but anyone wanting to seize it had to commit to never set foot in the square. A much-desired prize given only to those promising they won’t join us;  clearly, our pain should find better outlets. Various rewards were offered to those willing to leave the square. And there were threats. Embarrassing past events, long forgotten, suddenly surfaced, annoying and oppressive. A former legal complication, an assessor reevaluating an old debt and now demanding money, years-old fines that suddenly appeared. They all generated desperate silence and bitten nails.

But we kept demonstrating in the square.

Our numbers dwindled. Fewer people came to the square. The cries of grief were slightly less loud, and the messaging from the loudspeakers less strident. The anger was restrained; we whispered to each other. Though yelling still echoed from the square, we didn’t block cavalries with a staunch demeanor. No one inquired about those who disappeared. It was impossible to bring people back to the square; those who left us would never return. Comrades who gave in to fear and despair would never scream with us again. The invisible thread uniting us was gradually gnawed at, unraveled and split, becoming thinner and more fragile. We cried out loud, but our wailing did not echo above the city. The loud voices that filled the square dissipated quickly, leaving nothing but a steaming mist.

I demonstrated in the square.

Every day on my way home, I pause to sit on a side bench, my back hunched and my head held in my hands. People move through the square silently, walking in haste and never lingering. Crows with open beaks hop around, staring at me with dead eyes. I find the thought of the chubby baby waiting for me at home terrifying. When he wraps his soft arms around me and clings to me as tightly as he can, I smile at him, but I can’t stop the tears. I carry him to the window, and we look outside together. Gloomy people walk in the street alone.  As my child puts his head on my shoulder and gazes at the street with childish wonder, I tell myself that it’s fortunate he is still unable to see the future.